


Far From Any Road

by doctorkaitlyn



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Human, Bisexual Stiles Stilinski, Blood and Gore, Blow Jobs, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Case Fic, Complete, Complicated Relationships, Crime Scenes, Cults, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski Endgame, Detective Derek Hale, Detective Stiles, Explicit Sexual Content, Frottage, Gunshot Wounds, Hopeful Ending, Hospitals, Jealous Derek, Light Angst, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Minor Scott McCall/Kira Yukimura, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Kate Argent/Derek Hale, Past Stiles Stilinski/Malia Tate, Possessive Behavior, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Worker Isaac, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-02-08 23:08:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 103,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12875010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: Stiles Stilinski is a young, chronically sleep-deprived detective who's manipulative and morally dubious at best. He's fairly certain that, in the years since he started working for the California Bureau of Investigation, he's seen most of the horrible things that the world could possibly throw at him.But that's before a body turns up in an alley in Beacon Hills, brutally tortured, with a symbol burned into its back. It's quickly followed by a second and third, and when Stiles is unable to find any hint as to who the culprits might be, his father decides to bring in some outside help.His name is Derek Hale, and he too has seen some truly horrible things, only some of them on the job.Stiles hates him immediately.  But Derek may be their only hope for solving the case, so Stiles reluctantly agrees to accept his help.As it turns out, neither of them have seen anything close to the depths of human depravity that await them in the woods and down the back roads surrounding Beacon Hills.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's taken me three Nanowrimos to write and edit this beast, and here we finally are. some important things to note: 
> 
> \- I have taken some very obvious liberties with the structure of the California law enforcement system (although the CBI does exist!)  
> \- While the endgame of this fic is Stiles/Derek, the other pairings listed in the Relationship field do have sex scenes. so if you're a Sterek person only... maybe this isn't the fic for you?  
> \- Um. There's lots of blood and gore, crime scenes, copious alcohol consumption, idiots not knowing how to feel feelings, some general not so great behaviour, and that about sums it up.  
> \- Word count is about 114k so... we'll be here awhile. 
> 
> enjoy!

They find the first body on a Tuesday. 

It’s a warm spring day, where all the vestiges of winter seem to have finally disappeared. There’s not a cloud in the sky, and the sun is beating down on the back of Stiles’ neck. The brick wall that he’s leaning against is warm even through his button-up. His sleeves have been pushed up past his elbows for nearly an hour now, and his jacket is stashed in his car. There’s sweat beading on his temples, and he has to resist the urge to tug viciously at his tie, which seems to grow tighter and tighter with every minute that passes. 

It’s been almost eight years since he last touched a cigarette, but on days like this, he craves nothing more than acrid smoke flooding into his lungs. 

“Have you ever seen anything like this?” 

“What?” he snaps, whipping his head around to glance at the sheriff’s deputy standing in front of him. He’s young, fresh-faced, wearing a uniform that’s too big for him. There’s sweat slicking his face, but he’s ashen, like he’s going to tilt over and throw up on Stiles’ shoes at any moment. 

Stiles fervently hopes that doesn’t happen. They’re the only pair he owns that don’t have blood stains on them. 

“Have you ever seen anything like this?” the deputy repeats, glancing back over his shoulder. There’s a hive of activity a dozen feet away, at the mouth of the alley that contains the crime scene. There are a number of other deputies and the sheriff hanging around, talking to some of the technicians that are emerging from the alley, still clad in their head-to-toe white uniforms. When the deputy looks back at Stiles, he’s somehow grown even paler. 

“You’re Wilkins, right?” Stiles asks. “You found the body.” The deputy nods, throat bobbing, and Stiles claps one hand on his shoulder, trying not to grimace when he realizes the man’s uniform is soaked through with sweat. “Yeah, I’ve seen something like this before,” he continues. “And you’re going to see stuff like this again. Fucked up stuff happens in Beacon Hills. If you can’t handle it, you should quit while you’re ahead.” The deputy’s mouth flaps a few times but thankfully, before he manages to find his voice, one of the technicians calls Stiles over to the alley. Stiles claps the deputy’s shoulder again before he strides over, scratching at the base of his throat where his tie has rubbed the skin nearly raw. 

Technically, what he told the deputy is only half a lie. Beacon Hills truly _is_ a fucked up town; Stiles grew up in it, and he’s been working in it since he first became a detective with the California Bureau of Investigation two years ago. He reports back to headquarters in Sacramento only sporadically; most of the time, he remains in town, working out of a cubicle in the CBI’s local detachment office. In the years he’s spent in the cubicle, all sorts of horrid shit has crossed his desk; severe child abuse cases, murder-suicides, situations where people took tainted drugs that made the flesh rot off their bones. 

He _has_ seen some intensely fucked up stuff. That wasn’t a lie. But he has _never_ seen anything like that which awaits him at the end of the alley. 

It’s a young woman, maybe a few years older than himself, half-tucked behind a fetid dumpster. Her long blonde hair is fanned around her face, and her brown eyes are open and lifeless, staring up at the sky. Most of her exposed skin is pale and mottled purple; the only exception is the red, gaping maw that used to be her throat. The wound is far too wide to have been created by a single knife; it looks more like an animal tore it out. There are a few droplets of blood scattered across her bare chest, but there’s no blood spray marking the walls, the dumpster or the ground. Her jeans, the only item of clothing she’s still wearing, are covered in tiny rips, and her bare feet are filthy and scratched.

She definitely wasn’t murdered in the alley, and Stiles suspects that she tried to flee from her attackers before she was killed. 

“We won’t know if she’s been sexually assaulted until the autopsy,” one of the technicians says. Stiles nods and crouches down so he can get a better look at her. Almost immediately, one of his other senses comes into play. Underneath the stink of the dumpster, there’s another scent lingering, one he recognizes all too well from the handful of arson cases he’s worked.

“Could you turn her over for me?” he asks the tech, who nods and crouches down. Stiles steps back to give them some room, and as soon as they carefully shift the corpse, the smell grows stronger. 

A few seconds later, the source of it becomes clear. 

The woman’s back, between her shoulder blades, is a mess of singed skin. Stiles isn’t an expert on burns, but he’s still certain that they’re third degree. He stares at them for a few more moments before he stands back up, stomach churning. 

“Torture?” the technician asks. Stiles shrugs. It’s possible, but usually torture is a little more extensive and varied. 

“Maybe. Can you get some pictures of that for me?”

&.

A week later, the woman’s autopsy report hits Stiles’ desk.

In his haste to get at it, he slops his coffee onto a stack of evidence log forms, but he ignores the mess for the time being. He’ll just print off more, or steal some from Parrish, who works in the next cubicle over. 

He quickly skims over the report itself, past the information that he’s already familiar with. The woman’s name was Moira Kendrick, and she was just shy of her thirty-fourth birthday. There were no signs of sexual assault on her body, and there were small pebbles and dirt lodged in the cuts on her feet and between her toes.

The _other notes_ section is what makes Stiles switch from skimming to actively reading. 

_The victim has extensive burns on her back, ranging from first to third degree in nature. The deepest burns are located directly between the victim’s shoulder blades, beginning at approximately two inches below the base of the first vertebrae. Burn appears to be a symbol of some kind; more specifically, a triad composed of spirals. Burns were made while the victim was still alive, possibly with an acetylene torch, although further testing will be needed in order to confirm._

He reads the passage half a dozen times before he flips to the glossy photos that fill the rest of the folder. There are two dozen of them, pictures of the body from all angles, close-ups of the wound in her throat and the burn on her back. With some of the dirt and debris cleared away from it, Stiles can make out the design of the wound. It’s three spirals, joined together in the middle, wholly unfamiliar to him.

There’s a last known address listed for the woman, and while she’s not exactly local, the town is only an hour’s drive away. There’s no next of kin listed, but there’s an employer, a chain grocery store. 

It’s not much, but Stiles has solved cases with less.

“Parrish?” he asks, poking his head over the wall that joins their cubicles. 

“Hey,” Parrish replies, glancing up from his stack of paperwork. “Did you get that autopsy report?”

“Yeah. I’m gonna head over to her town, interview her boss. You working on anything right now?”

“Not really. I mean, paperwork, but if you can drive, I can deal with that as we go.” Stiles has to resist the urge to roll his eyes; he likes Parrish, he really does. The guy is the very definition of personable, and he has a giant, beaming smile that’s never less than one hundred percent genuine. He’s older than Stiles, somewhere just past thirty, but he could still easily pass for a college student. He’s _definitely_ fuckable, and if it weren’t for them working together so closely, Stiles would have tried to hit that long ago. 

As is, notwithstanding the tension that always lingers just below the surface of their interactions, Parrish is the perfect partner. But sometimes he’s just so damn _earnest_ about the job that it makes Stiles a little sick. 

“Alright, I can drive. But we’re stopping for coffee first.”

“Deal.”

&.

Their interview with Mr. Sampson, manager of the grocery store that Moira worked at, gives them something to go on. Moira was a part-time employee who only worked three shifts a week. She was always quiet and polite to customers but never interacted much with her fellow employees. She even ate lunch separately from them, out back of the store on the loading dock whenever there weren’t trucks coming in.

“She was strange,” Sampson tells them, “but not in a terrible way. Just a little odd, you know? Always looked tired.” 

“Did you notice anything strange before she disappeared?” Parrish asks, glancing up from the palm sized notebook in his hand. “Was she acting differently?” 

“We had a few complaints. Nothing major, just her giving back the wrong change, occasionally zoning out. But detectives, that was _months_ ago.”

“What?” Stiles asks, stabbing his pen through the doodle he’s been absently working on over the course of their interview. “What did you say?”

“I thought you knew,” Sampson says, shrugging casually in a way that makes Stiles want to grab him by his few strands of hair and slam his face down onto his cluttered desk. “Moira hasn’t worked here for nearly four months. She just stopped showing up for work one night. I thought she skipped town.”

&.

“And he didn’t think to mention that to us at the _beginning_ of the interview?” Stiles snaps, slamming the heel of his hand into his steering wheel when an SUV cuts him off.

“We probably should have asked that first,” Parrish responds with a frown. Stiles’ mouth opens and closes a few times before he simply groans with frustration and presses down on the accelerator, gunning the vehicle. 

“Whatever,” he mutters. “Let’s just hope that there’s something at this woman’s apartment.”

Five minutes later, they discover that there isn’t, because the woman’s apartment no longer exists. 

The address where the building is supposed to be standing is a scorched lot. Piles of charred bricks litter the ground, and when Stiles steps out of the car, broken glass crunches underneath his boots. There’s crabgrass growing in the debris, desperately stretching towards the sky through a maze of twisted, blackened metal. 

“What the _fuck_ ,” Stiles groans, resisting the urge to slam his knuckles against the side of the car, but only because driving with a broken hand is a pain in the ass. Instead, he turns to Parrish, who is rapidly typing away on his phone. “Are you seeing this?”

“Yep,” Parrish replies. “Apparently it was an electrical fire. Burned down three months ago, nearly took the whole block with it, according to the local paper.” After tucking his phone away, he stays silent for a few moments, glass crunching under his boots every time he shifts slightly. “Do you think it’s a coincidence?” Stiles glances at him and sighs, rubbing one hand down the side of his face, wincing as stubble scratches against his palm. He doesn’t remember the last time that he shaved. 

“I don’t know,” he says. “We can stop by the station and see what their report has to say. But I think this might be a dead end.”

&.

He makes it back to his apartment just before nine o’clock. His stomach is rumbling persistently, and he realizes that he can’t remember the last time he consumed something that wasn’t heavily caffeinated. The only thing in his fridge is a gallon of milk, but he has a few frozen dinners in his freezer. He throws one in the microwave and grabs the milk before collapsing onto his couch. His tie goes flying somewhere behind the television, which has been playing all day. While he waits for the microwave to screech, he flips through his copy of the fire report from the police station.

It’s pretty open and shut. The fire started in the basement electrical room and spread to the rest of the building in no time. They found the landlord’s remains afterwards, but they were little more than a stack of charred bones, which leaves Stiles with nothing to go on. He sighs and tosses the report onto his coffee table, nearly knocking over a stack of empty take-out containers.

Despite how warm the container is when he pulls it from the microwave, the dinner is still cold in the middle. He scarfs it down anyways, using the last clean fork in his drawer. The television is playing some trashy reality show, and he barely follows along as he eats. Mainly, he flips through a book that he finds stuck between his couch cushions. It’s a cheesy sci-fi paperback, picked up for twenty-five cents at a yard sale. He gets through sixteen pages before he tosses it across the room as well. 

“Already read you,” he mutters, looking around until he finds the next closest book. His apartment is littered with them; pulp fiction paperbacks with dog-eared pages, hundreds of true crime books, history textbooks, law enforcement manuals. They’re stacked beside the couch in haphazard piles, piled in a pyramid on top of his television, stored in cardboard boxes wherever there’s space. He had bookshelves lining the walls of his bedroom once upon a time, but they’d eventually collapsed from the weight and he’d never bothered to fix them. The books they contained, along with the splinters from the broken shelves, still litter his bedroom floor. 

He doesn’t go into his bedroom enough to make cleaning everything up worth it. 

He polishes off the milk, drops the empty container onto the floor and swings his legs up onto the couch, toeing his socks off. After a moment of flipping through channels, he selects a four hour documentary about World War II and grabs the fire report again. He reads it until he could recite it by rote and then he tosses it back onto the table.

Maybe he’s overthinking things again. Maybe Moira really did just leave town. Maybe she took off to live with a boyfriend and fell in with the wrong crowd. Maybe the timing of the electrical fire at the apartment was just a coincidence.

Somehow, he doesn’t think so.

&.

He wakes up to his cell phone ringing.

He jolts upright and reaches out blindly, knocking a number of things off the coffee table before his fingers finally close around his phone. He answers without looking at the number. This late, there’s really only a few people that it could be. 

“Stilinski,” he yawns, nearly choking on his own spit. 

“They’ve found another body.”

He copies down the address of the scene before hanging up and groaning. It’s not even three o’clock in the morning, and he feels like he’s been run over. He’s still in his work clothes, so he grabs a tie from the floor before stumbling into the bathroom. 

He throws on more deodorant, shoves more gel into his hair, brushes his teeth and splashes his face with water. When he glances up into the mirror, he barely recognizes himself. His cheekbones are pressing harshly against his skin, and there’s the beginning of a beard coating his jaw. His eyes are dull and glazed over, and there are even a few pimples scattered around his chin, throbbing underneath his skin. 

He splashes more water, this time with a handful of soap, against his face before he sighs and drops his head. 

“Fuck.”

&.

It looks like a carnival has come to town.

The night is aglow with flashing red and blue lights. Stiles winces as he pulls up to the crime scene, squints as he steps out into the fray. There’s an ambulance sitting nearby, back doors open. The paramedics are sitting inside, each of them holding a steaming cup of coffee. Stiles knows that they’re just doing their job, but he kind of wants to tell them to fuck off and go help someone who actually needs it. 

They don’t need an ambulance. They need a coroner’s van. Or maybe a hearse.

The scene is only a few miles away from the first, but those miles make all the difference in the surroundings; Moira had been dumped in an alley in an isolated industrial section of town, but the second crime scene is a ditch next to one of the most highly trafficked roads leading out of Beacon Hills. It’s been cordoned off, but Stiles can still see headlights in the distance, pulling to a stop and lingering for a few minutes before turning around and leaving.

Fucking vultures. 

The technicians are still down in the ditch, but even from his vantage point, Stiles can see enough. The red and blue lights provide all the illumination he needs. 

The body is in pieces, the parts strewn across a distance of roughly twenty feet. Closest to Stiles is an arm, sheared away at the shoulder, white knob of bone peeking out. The other limbs are nearby, half covered up with fallen leaves or twigs. It’s the torso that Stiles is most interested in so he moves a few feet, until he’s in line with the technician that’s examining that particular piece. 

“Have you looked at the back yet?” he yells. The technician nods and slowly rolls the limbless torso over onto its front. There, in the same spot as the first victim, is a patch of seared flesh. While it’s still too early to know, Stiles is almost certain that there’s a triad spiral design underneath the dirt and debris. He nods down at the technician before retreating to the nearest cruiser and leaning against the side, drumming his fingers against the cool metal. 

When he was younger, when his dad was a mere captain with the Bureau, there was a statement he used to repeat when he was investigating cases that looked like they may have been connected. He said it so many times that Stiles could repeat it by the time he was six, without even really knowing what it meant. 

“If one’s an incident, two’s a coincidence, and three’s a pattern.” 

It’s a saying that Stiles has tried to incorporate into his own practice, but right now, he doesn’t think it’s quite accurate. Sure, there are things about the crimes that don’t match; different areas of town, the different sexes of the victims, the severely varying levels of torture inflicted on their bodies. 

But still. In two days, they've found two bodies with the same bizarre symbol burned into the exact same spot, probably with the same kind of implement. 

He sure as fuck doesn't consider that to be a coincidence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've created a soundtrack for this fic, which can be found on [8tracks](https://8tracks.com/doctorkaitlyn/far-from-any-road) and on [tumblr.](http://banshee-cheekbones.tumblr.com/post/168094907603/far-from-any-road-a-chaptered-slow-burn-sterek) stay tuned for a Playmoss link (hopefully)!
> 
> as always, I can be found on [tumblr.](http://banshee-cheekbones.tumblr.com/) :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the super short chapter. the next one will be up soon!

“Have you talked to your dad lately?” 

“What?” Stiles asks, head snapping up from where he’s been staring into the depths of his nearly empty beer bottle. Scott’s been talking to him for awhile, but Stiles hasn’t really been listening, not to the specific words. It’s more that he’s let the sound of Scott’s voice lull him into a state that almost resembles calmness. 

“Your dad. Have you talked to him lately?” Scott repeats, taking another swig of his drink. They’re sitting on the concrete steps leading from the back door of his house to the backyard. The yard is tiny, barely big enough for a battered picnic table and a swing set, but Stiles certainly can’t complain; the best he has at his apartment is a balcony that he never sits on for fear that the cracked concrete will split apart and send him plummeting to the ground. 

Some days, he doesn’t think that would necessarily be a bad thing. 

“A week ago, I think. Maybe,” he sighs. “I’ll give him a call later.” 

“Good plan.” Scott falls quiet again, humming a little under his breath. The sound of Kira talking to their two year old daughter wafts from the open kitchen window, along with the delicious smell of whatever she's making for dinner. Stiles watches as Scott’s face predictably turns up into a smile, and Stiles takes another long swig of beer to block out the sour taste that inexplicably appears in his mouth. 

“How have you been feeling?” Scott asks after a moment. “Have you been sleeping?” They’re fairly simple questions, ones that Scott always asks but, like always, Stiles takes his time before he answers them. 

His answers are always different. Sometimes, he tells the truth. He tells Scott that his mind feels like it’s been through a meat grinder, that he keeps seeing corpses behind his eyes whenever he blinks, that he can’t remember the last time he slept for more four hours.

He tells Scott that he thinks he might go crazy someday soon. 

Sometimes, he lies. He tells Scott that he’s been getting a bit more sleep, that he’s trying to wean himself off the coffee, that he’s been pulling shorter hours at work. 

He prefers to lie, because it’s easier and because he’s seen how Scott looks at him when he tells the truth. Sure, he usually nods like he understand, pulls Stiles into a hug and tells him that he’s there for him, that he’ll help however he can. 

But sometimes, when Stiles glances out of the corner of his eye, he sees Scott looking at him like he looks at the rabid dogs that sometimes come into his work.

Sometimes, Scott looks at him like he's _scared_ of him.

Most of the time, Stiles doesn’t blame him. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he says, forcing a smile. “I found this new tea. It’s actually been helping me sleep.”

“Yeah?” Thankfully, before Stiles has to elaborate upon the lie, the door creaks open. 

“You guys ready to eat?” Kira asks. She has Lily, their daughter, propped on her hip. Stiles waggles her fingers at her and after a moment, she slowly waves back and ducks her head into Kira’s neck. 

“Definitely,” Scott replies, jumping to his feet and plastering a kiss on Lily’s cheek. “Are you all cleaned up for dinner?” 

“She wanted her dad to do it,” Kira replies, passing Lily over to Scott. “Stiles, do you want some coffee?” 

“I’m fine,” Stiles smiles, following Kira inside. “Dinner smells great.”

&.

For the next two hours, things are almost normal. Dinner is delicious, per usual. After they’ve washed all the dishes, Lily asks Stiles to read to her before bed. She picks out an old Dr. Seuss book, and by the time he gets six pages in, she’s passed out with her head in Scott’s lap.

“Wish that happened when I read to her,” Scott chuckles quietly as they slip from her room. 

“It’s all in the voice,” Stiles says. “I gotta head out, early morning tomorrow. Next week?” 

“You know it,” Scott grins, tugging Stiles into a hug that momentarily knocks his breath from his chest. “You know you don’t have to wait to come by. You need some more meat on your bones.” 

“Yeah, maybe,” Stiles says with an easy shrug. “We’ll see how this week goes.” 

“Don’t forget to give your dad a call,” Scott yells out the front door as Stiles heads to his car. “Or he’s going to call _me_.” 

“I think he likes you more than me sometimes!” Scott laughs again and waves before shutting the door. As soon as his silhouette vanishes from the window set into the door, Stiles lets his fake grin drop from his face. 

He’s still ten blocks away from his apartment when his phone rings. He glances at the number, groans and answers.

“Let me guess, third body?”

&.

The address that he's given is a forested area on the outskirts of town, near the entrance to the Preserve. The victim is a male this time. The bare torso is covered with a loose blanket of dead leaves, but the rest of the body is exposed, sightless brown eyes pointing towards the sky.

They find a wallet containing a learner’s permit that expired six years ago in the back pocket of his faded jeans, but regardless of what the permit says, the man still looks like a teenager, complete with the last traces of adolescent acne on his chin and cheeks. He hasn’t been as extensively tortured as the second victim, but his throat has been torn out with the same ferocity as the first. The same triad spiral is burned between his shoulder blades, and his feet are bare and covered in bloody scratches. 

None of the blood on the boy has reached the dark brown color of full oxidation, which means that he was dumped only a few hours ago. 

As he strides back to his car after talking to the technicians combing over the scene, Stiles slams his fist into the door. It dents the metal and makes his knuckles throb, but none of them break. He absently shakes his injured hand as he slides inside. 

Three bodies in less than five days, and what does he have to show for it? Absolute fuck all, aside from an arson report and more bad dreams than usual. 

He’s surprised that his dad hasn’t called _him_ yet. Whenever he fucks up, it’s only a matter of time before someone leaks it to Commander Stilinski.

He sighs before he turns the car on and fishtails away from the crime scene. Helpful as Parrish is, he’s not going to be enough in this case, and none of the other people who work out of the Beacon Hills office have enough experience with multiple homicides to be any real help. 

Maybe he just needs more time. More sleep. 

No. 

Abruptly, he slams on the brakes and pulls over to the side of the road. He yanks his phone out of his pocket and glances at the time. It’s just before midnight, but he only hesitates for a moment before swallowing his pride and pressing the second number in his speed dial. The tone cuts off on the second ring, and the person who answers has a distinctive slur to their voice, a slur that makes a hot spike of anger slam into Stiles’ stomach.

“Stiles? Is everything alright?” Stiles forces himself to yank his thumb away from the _end call_ button. 

“No, Dad,” he sighs, running a hand through his greasy hair. “I think... I think I need some help with something.”


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles pulls into the parking lot of the CBI’s Sacramento headquarters just before six AM, fueled by coffee and a twelve pack of donuts from a gas station. His dad’s vehicle is parked in the reserved spot right near the entrance, and Stiles can’t help but snort as he walks by, chewing on his last donut. 

He wonders what his dad’s blood alcohol level was when he pulled into the station.

He barely gets his name out to the half-asleep desk officer before he’s waved through to the back. He makes his way through the bullpen and waves to a few detectives that he recognizes before he stops at the end of the building’s main hallway. The door to his dad’s office is propped open, but he still knocks before he slips inside. 

“Hey Pops,” he greets around his last mouthful of donut. “How’s it hanging?” 

“ _Stiles_ ,” his dad snaps from his chair behind his desk. His head minutely jerks towards the corner of the room, and when Stiles whips around, he stops in his tracks. 

“Oh,” he says. “Hey.”

There’s a guy that Stiles has never seen before sitting bolt upright in the overstuffed (and extremely fucking uncomfortable) chair in the corner of the office. He looks to be in his early thirties. Thick, black scruff covers his jaw and cheeks, and his hazel eyes are crowned by even thicker, darker eyebrows. He’s wearing a tie and a dark gray button-up, but there’s a leather jacket hanging over the arm of the chair and his boots are scuffed in more than a few spots. 

Of primary importance is the fact that he looks very tired and _very_ unimpressed. 

“Stiles, this is Detective Hale, from the San Diego office,” his dad says wearily. “Derek, this is Detective Stilinski, my son.” Derek gets to his feet, but he doesn’t say anything. He simply sticks his hand out, one of his eyebrows raised in a way that Stiles can’t help but take offense to. 

“Nice to meet you,” Stiles replies, wiping powdered sugar onto his pants before he shakes the guy's hand. “How long are you in town for?” 

“I thought you talked to him,” Derek says, turning to face Stiles’ dad, face creasing into a frown.

“I didn’t get a chance to. Stiles, didn’t you hear your phone going off?” Stiles yanks his phone from his pocket and sure enough, there are three missed calls and three new voicemails. 

“Nope,” he says. “Even if I did, safety first.” His dad rolls his eyes before he opens a manila folder sitting on top of a stack of identical folders. 

“Derek specializes in homicides,” he says, peering over the edge of the reading glasses he didn’t need five years ago. “Ones with ritualistic elements.”

“Is that so?” Stiles asks. Derek doesn’t answer. He just stares at Stiles, not even blinking, muscular arms crossed over his chest. It’s actually quite off-putting, so Stiles turns back to his dad, who looks like he’s thinking about flinging himself out the window. 

“Yes,” he sighs, closing the folder. “I want you to work with him, Stiles. I think he’ll be an asset to the investigation.” 

“What?” Stiles snaps, twitching so violently that some of his lukewarm coffee spills onto his hand. “Whoa, this isn’t what I meant when I asked for some help.” 

“What exactly _did_ you mean?” His dad’s tone changes completely, slips from fond exasperation to borderline fury. “Stiles, you asked for help because you’re overwhelmed. Do you know how much sleep I got last night? None-“

“Join the club,” Stiles mutters, and his dad jumps to his feet, palms slamming into the surface of his desk. 

“ _Detective_ ,” he yells. “Are you done?” This time, Stiles manages to restrain himself, but only by digging his nails into the meat of his palms. 

“Yes, sir,” he mutters with a nod. 

“Good. As I was saying, I got _no_ sleep last night, because I was making call after call, trying to find someone who could come up here on no notice and give you a hand. Detective Hale is good at his job, and he’s seen crimes similar to this before-“

“You have?” Stiles blurts. Derek nods once, the movement so minute that Stiles thinks he might have imagined it for a second. 

“A few years ago, when I was straight out of school,” Derek says. “But it wasn’t the same kind of symbol. It was squarer. I have pictures. And they were on children. Teenagers.” 

“Derek brought the files with him,” his dad continues, gesturing to the tall stack of folders on his desk. “You’re going to work together on this. You’re going to find whoever did this, before it gets any more out of hand. That is an order, Detective.” 

“Yes, sir,” Stiles says again, picking up half of the stack. “Anything else?” 

“Nothing official. Dinner next Monday?”

“Maybe,” Stiles says. “I’ll see what I’m up to.” Without another word, he turns and exits the office. Only a few moments later, he hears Derek’s heavy footsteps fall in behind him, echoing through the still quiet station. 

“How are you getting to Beacon Hills?” Stiles asks, throwing the words back over his shoulder. 

“If you can drive me there, I’m going to lease a car,” Derek replies. Stiles tries not to let his disappointment show on his face. If he’d known that he was going to be shuttling someone else around, he would have given his car a cursory cleaning. He tries not to keep it too messy, but it’s started to accumulate fast food wrappers and old newspapers, and he’s been too tired to deal with it. He has to throw his donut box into the back and brush crumbs off the passenger seat before Derek can slide in. His boots immediately crunch against some of the detritus in the footwell, and even without looking, Stiles can _feel_ the judgement rolling off his face. 

“Sorry about the mess,” he mutters, throwing the car into drive and pulling out of the lot. Neither of them say a word until they’re back on the interstate, heading towards Beacon Hills. When Derek does open his mouth again, he’s so quiet that Stiles hears nothing more than the tone of his voice; the individual words are buried underneath the music trilling from the radio. 

“What?” he asks, slapping the mute button and plunging the car into quiet. 

“I said,” Derek repeats, voice edged like iron, “I usually prefer to work alone. Just so you know.” 

Working alone isn't actually Stiles' favorite thing. He likes working alongside Parrish whenever he gets the chance; he’s excellent at calming down witnesses, little old ladies love him, and he has an ass that you could bounce a quarter off of. What’s not to like?

It’s also not like Derek can be any worse than the last person his father assigned him to work with. He’d been some rookie right out of school, some kid named Greenberg who apparently had a knack for reading people’s behavior. He’d been so fucking unbearable and incompetent that Stiles had left him at a crime scene, driven back to Sacramento, and told his dad that if he had to work with the kid for a day longer, he was going to quit. He’d even laid his badge on his father’s desk, right next to his nameplate, just to get the message across.

The last he heard, Greenberg was working up north somewhere, near the Washington border. Good fucking riddance.

“I guess we can’t always get what we want, can we?” he finally responds, trying to keep his tone level.

The silence that greets him is thick, weighs on his shoulders like lead. 

“Have you gotten a chance to look over the files yet?” he asks after the silence stretches out for five minutes. 

“I looked them over on the plane,” Derek responds. “I think I might have somewhere we can start.” 

“Yeah? Where’s that?”

“The first victim, Moira Kendrick. She had no next of kin, right?” 

“Right,” Stiles nods. “No one listed as an insurance beneficiary, no one who came forth and claimed the body, parents both dead. Didn’t have a Facebook account or social media of any kind as far as our techs could find.” 

“There was a teenager in the first set of murders I investigated,” Derek says. “Her last name was Kendrick too, Susan Kendrick. She had an uncle that we talked to after we found her body. Guy named Irving Walsh, lives back in the woods, alone. He said he hadn’t seen his niece in years, and we cleared him from our suspect list. But I did some digging and it turns out that Susan is Moira’s cousin.”

“What the fuck. Are you serious?” Stiles replies. “How did we miss that?”

“Not hard to. If Moira never talked to Susan or her uncle, there wouldn’t be much of a record. It might not give us anything, but the man’s last known address is on our way back.” 

“Might as well give it a shot,” Stiles agrees. A sign for an upcoming exit appears on the horizon and he starts making his way across the lanes so that he can pull off the highway. “But first, I need more coffee.” 

“Me too. Long night,” Derek replies quietly and, when Stiles glances over, the man is, miraculously, not glaring. He’s simply staring out the window, the bags under his eyes quite prominent in the sun streaming through the dirty glass. 

Maybe partnering with the guy won’t be a _total_ pain in the ass.

&.

Partnering with the guy is a total pain in the ass.

After they get coffee, they hit the road again. Derek sips his drink in silence, apart from telling Stiles which exit they need to take in order to get to the uncle’s house. After that, it’s turn after turn, until the tarmac melts away into cracked pavement and rutted roads. Rolling hills rise above the road on both sides and occasionally, there are turn-offs that lead into the bush, the driveways blocked by rusting fences or faded signs screaming _no trespassing_. 

It’s not totally foreign to Stiles; some of the places around Beacon Hills are like this, tucked back so far into the woods that you can blink and miss them. But it never fails to put a shiver up his spine. He’s heard too many stories from other detectives about things that have happened on roads like this; exploding meth labs, tires popped by nails and glass left on the road, ripped apart animals lying in the ditch. He’s seen some of it with his own eyes. 

“You know, I bet there are some pretty fucked-up cults back here,” he says, slowing the car to a crawl as they edge over a particularly large rut in the road. “Not hippie communes. I mean like actual cults, Manson style.” 

“Cults,” Derek says incredulously. When Stiles glances over, he’s met with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah, cults,” he repeat. “You know, doomsday weirdos, those people who think the end of the world is upon us. I’m sure the hills are probably crawling with them, if it’s anything like home. There’s plenty of people who do fucked up shit there, out in the Preserve.” 

“Hmm,” Derek says noncommittally. “Turn down here. This is his driveway.” Stiles slams on the brakes. At first, he doesn’t even see the laneway. After a moment of peering, he finally sees a gap in the overhanging trees. He slowly turns the wheel, edging the car into the deep ruts that form the driveway. The whole thing looks like something out of a horror film, and he proceeds slowly, waiting for the telltale pop of a tire exploding. 

“How the fuck did you even remember how to get to this place?” Stiles asks. The trees have grown together overhead, creating a thick canopy that blocks out most of the sunlight. 

“I didn’t. GPS,” Derek says, waving his phone slightly. Stiles snorts and turns his attention back to the road. Suddenly, the significance of Derek’s earlier response (or non-response, actually) hits him, and he glances sideways again. 

“What did that mean?” 

“GPS? Really?”

“No, not fucking GPS. Your little _hmm_ thing you did back there. What was _that_ supposed to mean?” 

“Are we seriously having this conversation right now?” 

“Yes,” Stiles sneers in response. “If we’re going to be working together, we gotta get this shit out in the open. So what was the little _hmm_ for?”

“I was just wondering if you believed in satanists. I mean, if we’re talking about mysterious cults living back in the woods, we might as well talk about baby sacrifices too.”

For a few moments, all Stiles can do is gape. On some level, he appreciates the honesty, but mainly, he’s shocked at what Derek has spewed from his mouth. Sure, the existence of baby sacrificing satanist cults may have been debunked by the FBI, but Stiles has seen enough shit to consider everything to be at least _possible_. 

For fuck’s sake, they’re on a case where someone is using a _blowtorch_ to burn spirals into people’s backs. 

“You think I’m lying about the stuff we’ve seen out in the woods? You know what, dude?” Stiles spits, slamming the heel of his hand against the steering wheel. “Fuck you.” He goes back to driving until finally, there’s a break in the trees, revealing a small clearing. There’s a ramshackle house in the middle of it, capped by a tin roof that looks like it might cave in at any second. There are two or three rusted junker cars scattered around the perimeter of the clearing, and there’s a newer truck parked by the front door with a gun rack secured to the back. 

Before he removes the key from the ignition, Stiles peers closer, looking for any obvious booby traps. 

“Aren’t you a little old to be saying dude?” Derek’s voice is quiet and dead serious. When Stiles glances over, there’s not a hint of a smile of his face. Come to think of it, the only time Stiles has seen Derek do anything other than glare or be completely stone-faced was back at the gas station where they’d grabbed their coffee. The young girl working behind the counter had practically _swooned_ when he’d flashed a bright white smile at her. 

“I’m twenty-six,” Stiles replies. “I’m old enough to say whatever the hell I want.” He holds eye contact with Derek for a moment before he swivels in his seat and leans into the back. He tore his tie off when he left Beacon Hills last night (nearly twelve hours ago, he realizes) and he’s pretty sure that he threw it somewhere in the backseat. 

There’s no saving the rest of his appearance; his hair is a mess, matted with day old gel, and he still hasn’t shaved, but he’s always surprised at how much respect he can get just by wearing a decent tie.

“Thirty."

“What?” Stiles snaps, glancing back over his shoulder as he continues to fumble through the pile of clothes and other detritus on his back seat. 

“I’m thirty,” Derek repeats, unclipping his seat-belt. “In case you were curious.” 

Stiles wasn’t, not really, and he has half a mind to tell Derek just that, but he’s pretty sure that he’s reached his maximum level of antagonizing the other detective for the day so he simply shrugs, fingers finally closing around the wrinkled fabric of his tie. 

“Good for you,” he says with a shrug, wriggling back into the front seat and glancing up into the rear-view mirror so that he can knot the tie. “Now, what’s this guy like? Is he gonna kill us if we say the wrong thing?”

“He’s fairly calm,” Derek replies, pulling his leather jacket on. “Was a recovering alcoholic at the time. Might have relapsed by now.” 

“Probably,” Stiles mutters, trying very hard not to think of the slur in his father’s voice when he’d answered the phone last night. “Most of them do.” He finishes up with the tie; it’s slightly crooked, but it’s not worth trying again. He glances around the yard once more before he pockets his keys and opens the door. It’s cool in the clearing and eerily quiet. He can’t hear a single bird singing, and when a gentle breeze brushes through the trees, even the sound of the leaves rustling seems muted. 

A chill goes up his back, and when he slams the door, the sound seems obscenely loud. 

“Let’s go see if he’s home."

&.

The man who answers the door is average height but broad shouldered, his lumberjack frame matching the red plaid sweater he’s wearing over an oil stained pair of jeans. His face is nearly buried underneath bushy swathes of grey hair. For a moment, Stiles expects that he’ll be greeted with the sight of a toothless smile, but when the man finally speaks, either he has all of his teeth or an impressive pair of dentures.

“What’s this about?”

“I’m Detective Hale, with the California Bureau of Investigation,” Derek says, pulling his badge out of his pocket before Stiles can even open his mouth. “This is Detective Stilinski. We need to ask you some questions about your niece, Moira Kendrick.” The man’s face softens, and his gaze lowers to the ground. When he next speaks, his voice is hushed. 

“Is this like what happened with Susan?” he asks. 

“Yes,” Stiles says. “We think it may be connected to Susan’s death.” A single tear falls from the man’s eye and drips into his wiry beard. 

“Well, I don’t know how much I’ll be able to help you,” he says, opening the door wider and stepping aside, “but I’ll do the best I can.” 

The air is filled with dust motes, floating in the sunbeams coming through the uncovered windows, and the dust clings to every surface, as if no one has actually been through the house in a very long time. They pass by the kitchen on the way to the living room, and when he inhales, Stiles catches a hint of something rotten. It’s not a corpse; that scent is impossible to mistake, permanently burned into his brain, but it still smells like something has gone bad, like a fridge full of food after a long power outage. 

Still, while it feels _wrong_ , he’s not getting the same kind of creepy vibes from the man himself. 

The living room is in better condition. There’s a faded couch and a worn armchair both facing a respectably sized television. Stiles flops down onto the couch, which squeaks alarmingly loud underneath him. 

“Sorry about the mess,” Irving says, settling into the chair with a sigh and a few creaky bones. “My wife and I used to keep the house spotless, but it just doesn’t seem as important now that she’s passed on. I don’t get a lot of guests out here.” 

“How long has it been since she passed?” Derek says, and Stiles has to restrain himself from turning and staring. Sure, he’s only known Derek for a few hours, but that’s been enough time to get a good grasp on what his voice sounds like, which is _nothing_ like the soft, concerned, fucking _funereal_ voice currently coming out of his mouth. 

“Six months ago,” Irving replies. “Feels like it was just last week.” Stiles manages to wait three seconds, long enough for another tear to drip into Irving's beard, before he asks his first question. 

“When did you last speak to Moira?” 

“I’m not sure. It’s been years. I was never close with her father. He passed a decade ago.” 

“Very sorry,” Stiles automatically replies, which earns him a sharp kick in the ankle from Derek. He just barely restrains himself from kicking back as hard as he can. 

“Please, Mr. Walsh, try to remember. When was the last time you talked to your niece?” Irving’s eyes close, and Stiles takes the opportunity to shoot a glare at Derek and mouth _what the fuck_.

Derek doesn’t mouth anything back. He simply glares. 

“It was a family reunion, I think. We used to gather down at Collins Lake…”

&.

All in all, they don't get much out of the interview.

It’s been so long since Irving has seen his niece that he can provide absolutely no information on anyone she might have been hanging out with. All he can tell them is that Moira used to disappear for weeks on end as a teenager, run off with boyfriends or sketchy groups that promised they could change her life if she joined their commune or ate only organic food or devoted herself to some obscure deity. Eventually, she’d return skinny as a rail with lank hair and mysterious bruises, get another menial job, and disappear again after a few more months. 

“I don’t like him,” Stiles says after they’ve left the house, glancing over his shoulder as he walks towards his car. The clearing is a little louder now; there’s birdsong filling the air, but Stiles feels something sitting at the base of his spine, something that screams _not right_. 

“Why? Because his house was a little dusty? Because he dared to show some emotion?” Derek retorts, following Stiles’ gaze back to the house. 

“Really?” Stiles snaps. When Derek just stares at him with a raised eyebrow, he sighs and yanks the car door open. “No, not because of that that. Something just feels _off_. Don’t you feel it?”

“No,” Derek answers curtly.

Neither of them say another word until they’re back in Beacon Hills. 

The address that Derek gives Stiles is an apartment building on the fringes of downtown, where it begins to melt into the industrial district. It looks like it might crumble apart at any minute; it’s twenty stories of towering, cracked concrete, blackened windows, debris and trash drifted where the walls meet the sidewalks. 

“Seriously?” Stiles asks, peering up through the windshield and immediately getting vertigo. “You’re renting this place?” 

“Renting?” Derek replies with a frown. “I own this place.” 

“ _What_?” 

“I’ll meet you tomorrow at seven, at the station.” He reaches into the inside of his jacket and pulls out a business card, which he then slides into the gap between Stiles’ fingers and the steering wheel. “Let me know if you think of anything else we can look into.” With that, he slides from the car and quickly disappears beyond the reach of Stiles’ headlights. Stiles spends a few minutes staring out into the darkness before he twists the key in the ignition and rests his head against the steering wheel. The craving for nicotine is crawling up his throat, and he swallows over and over, slams his fist into the dashboard, feels something crack underneath his fingers. 

Trying to deal with Derek has been hard enough; the guy is already under his skin, and the most infuriating part is that Stiles doesn’t even know _why_. But right now, that’s not the issue. Derek’s last words have sparked something in Stiles’ brain, an option that he’s been trying desperately to suppress, a road that he vowed he’d never go down again. 

But it’s still fairly early in the evening, he isn’t going to sleep anytime soon, and there’s no point in going back to his office. He doesn’t want to sit and comb through files or fill out paperwork. He could go visit Scott, but that would be twice in two days, and he doesn’t want to feel like a dog hanging around, begging for attention. 

He has no real justification, no reason to hold back on making a phone call that _might_ crack open the case. 

He deleted the number from his last phone, and he hasn’t bothered to add it to his new one, but it’s still in his mind, lingering with the rest of the information that might be useful one day. He types the numbers in, smearing sweat onto the screen as he does so, and waits, dial tone echoing in his ear. 

Just when he’s ready to hang up, there’s a click. 

“Well, if it isn’t Detective Stilinski,” the voice says, a low, theatrical drawl that would be accompanied by an insufferable smirk if Stiles was seeing it in person. “Finally decide to come crawling back for more?” 

“Fuck you,” he snarls, turning the key in the ignition. “Where the hell are you?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for y'all that thought it was Peter last chapter... sorry to disappoint!

Isaac is still living in the same shitty apartment he occupied the last time Stiles saw him, which was nearly three months ago. It’s still almost completely devoid of furniture, there are no curtains covering the dirty windows, and curlicues of faded floral wallpaper are peeling away from the walls. There’s a stack of used paper plates and plastic utensils beside the sink, and one of the kitchen chairs looks like it might fall apart at any minute. 

Stiles doesn’t get a good look at the rest of the place, because Isaac immediately drags him into the bedroom, but he’s sure that it’s in much the same kind of condition. 

“So,” Isaac says afterwards through a mouthful of smoke. He’s lying on his back, sheets pooled around his hips. One arm is behind his head, long fingers curled into his messy mop of blonde curls, while the other is hovering just in front of his mouth, holding a cigarette that looks like it might crumble into ashes at any moment. “Did you finally get over yourself?”

“Fuck off,” Stiles replies automatically from where he’s sitting, still naked, at the end of the bed, trying to resist the lure of the cigarette and letting a cold breeze from the open window brush over his sweaty skin. “I’m not here to talk about that.” 

“Fine,” Isaac says with a shrug, exhaling smoke rings from between his swollen lips. “But you are here to talk about _something_ , I assume.” 

“Yeah." Stiles pulls his boxers back on and slides back up the bare mattress. His face passes through the smoke rings, and his throat aches with want. “You heard anything about the bodies we found this week?”

“Not really.”

“They all had a mark burned into their back.” He reaches out and traces the spiral on Isaac’s chest, near a vividly purple bruise. 

(Stiles doesn’t know if he’s the one who put it there but frankly, he doesn’t care. It’s Isaac’s business who he fucks.) 

“Three spirals, connected in the middle,” he says, tracing it again. “Have you heard anything or seen anything weird? Has anyone gone missing?” Isaac doesn’t answer right away, and when Stiles looks up, his stomach drops. Isaac’s not exactly known for his tan, but he’s even paler than usual, doesn’t even seem to notice the clumps of ash snowing onto his collarbone. Stiles takes the cigarette from him and stubs it out in the overflowing ashtray on the bedside table before he turns back. "Isaac, what do you know?” He’s not surprised that Isaac knows _something_ ; there's a reason why Stiles has used him as an anonymous informant in over a dozen of his cases. He’s always on the periphery of the less than legal activity in Beacon Hills, and while he usually stays away from the truly dangerous, fucked up stuff, he always manages to hear about it somehow. 

But Stiles has never seen him like this. He looks _terrified._

“Look, I don’t know if it’s related,” Isaac finally answers. “But some of the kids that used to be regulars haven't been around lately.” 

“Could they have been picked up by social services? Maybe some relative finally showed up to claim them?” Stiles asks. He knows that in this town, the chances of either happening are slim, but he has to ask. Isaac shakes his head and sits up straight, roughly shoving one hand through his unruly hair. 

“I went looking for one of them. His name was Ivan. We worked together once in a while. He had an apartment over on Clarke Street. It was unlocked when I went over there, but all of his stuff was still there. Well, the stuff that wasn’t already stolen, I mean.” The name rings a bell in Stiles’ mind and, after a sickening moment, he lurches off the bed and grabs his jeans so that he can yank his phone from the pocket. He has some crime scene photos saved on it, and he flips through them quickly, breezing through dozens of gory shots before he comes up with a clear photo of the second victim’s face. 

“Is this him?” Isaac goes even paler, and he nods.

“That’s him,” he answers quietly. “When did you-“

“Three days ago,” Stiles interrupts. “Somebody tore him apart, Isaac.” He flips through the photos again until he comes to a picture of the first victim’s face. Isaac shows no recognition, but when he brings up the third victim, Isaac sucks in a deep breath. 

“I don’t know his name, but I saw him around a lot. He seemed like a nice guy.” 

“How many other people do you know that have disappeared?” Stiles asks, tossing his phone back to the floor and clapping his hand onto Isaac’s shoulder. “Isaac, _how many?_ ”

&.

Seven.

There are seven people, all of them under the age of eighteen, that Isaac knows about that have recently disappeared from the street under unclear circumstances. 

It’s the first thing Stiles says to Derek when he sees him the next morning. 

“Seven!” he yells as soon as Derek walks into the bullpen.

“Excuse me?” Derek says, glancing down at his watch. “I’m early.” 

Stiles grabs the folder off his desk with _Goldilocks_ , Isaac’s informant identifier, scrawled across the front in black marker. He knows that he’ll probably get chastised for not following departmental labeling procedures (again), but as fun as it is to fuck around with the label maker, that can wait. He hasn’t slept yet; he was at Isaac’s apartment until nearly two o’clock in the morning, taking down notes on lined paper ripped from an old notebook and after that, he’d raced down to the office, made a huge pot of coffee and starting going through all the files they had on local street kids. It’d taken three hours, but he’d managed to match all seven of Isaac’s descriptions to names they had on file. 

“Seven,” he repeats, gathering up the thick file, leaping to his feet and shoving it into Derek’s arms. “There’s seven street kids missing, and two of the ones we found so far were also well-known on the streets. And then there’s-“

“When was the last time you slept?” Derek asks, casually flipping open the file and rifling through the papers. 

“I had a pot of coffee,” Stiles says dismissively, “I’ll be fine for a few more hours. Anyways, there's this-“ 

“You look terrible,” Derek interrupts. “You need a shower and a shave. And some sleep. Go home.” 

“Derek, I am fucking _fine_ ,” Stiles snaps. Out of the corner of his eye, he spies Parrish peering over his cubicle, and he absently waves at him. “Listen. I have a lead. Sleep can wait until after we investigate it. Understand?” Derek’s eyes are dark, and his mouth twists into a vicious frown, but he still nods, fingers curling tightly around the file. 

“Fine. But if we have to interview anyone, you're staying in the car. You look unprofessional.” 

“Fuck off,” Stiles says, grabbing his keys from his desk and snatching the file back. “I’m driving.”

&.

As they drive, Stiles is finally able to finish telling Derek what he learned from Isaac and, mercifully, Derek finally shuts up and lets him speak.

In addition to the names and descriptions of the missing street kids, Isaac had also given another name: Ennis. He'd described the guy as tall and extremely muscular with a shaved head, said that he'd been hanging around the streets for years. He’d disappear for weeks or months on end before reappearing with a wallet stuffed full of cash, and he targeted boys, girls, and non-binary people equally. 

The ones who could afford to be a little bit more discerning about their customers, like Isaac, had stayed away from the guy from the very beginning. Those who couldn't afford to be discerning, or were just lured in by the sight of so much cash, usually showed up back on the streets a few days after they went off with him with bowed heads and wilted smiles. Sometimes, Isaac let them crash at his apartment for a bit, and he got glimpses of the marks scattered up and down their bodies, dark bruises and still-healing bites that must have bled like crazy. 

Some of the ones who went off with him never returned.

“So, this informant of yours, did he give you an address?” Derek asks. “Or are we just driving around aimlessly?”

“He gave me the name of an apartment complex,” Stiles says. “Said most of the street kids try to stay away from it.” They’ve reached the outskirts of town, the ring of streets that lead up to the interstate. Stiles takes a left and they're immediately surrounded by row after row of decrepit housing, postage stamp yards in front of glorified cement blocks. Some people have tried to brighten up with a coat of paint or cheap plastic lawn ornaments, but it only makes the houses look more pathetic.

The apartment complex that they pull into is part of a cluster, surrounded by four other identical buildings. It’s low, five stories high, and stark windows dot the place like lidless eyes. There’s no movement in the parking lot, but there are signs of life in the sounds drifting out of open windows and balcony doors; a screaming child here, a loud television there, the clink of glass somewhere else. 

“Do you know which apartment he’s supposed to be in?” 

“I'm not that lucky,” Stiles replies. “But I have some contacts that live here. At least one of them should recognize Ennis’ description.” He starts walking towards the door, but he makes it less than five steps before he’s yanked backwards by Derek’s fingers grasping the collar of his shirt. He whips around, fingers curling into fists, but for once, Derek doesn’t look like he wants to fight. 

“Next time, tell your informant to go a little lower,” he mutters. His finger jabs into the side of Stiles’ neck, and the throbbing that follows tells Stiles that there’s at least one hickie marking up his throat. Stiles smacks his hand away, and for a few minutes, Derek just stares at him, mouth twisted into another goddamn frown.

“Christ,” he finally mutters, shaking his head and striding past Stiles towards the entrance to the building. 

For a moment, Stiles reconsiders his decision to _not_ punch Derek in the face. But while the parking lot is empty, it’d be just his luck for someone to glance out a window and see so, dull fingernails digging into the hard flesh of his palms, he follows Derek to the front door. 

Technically, the apartment building is supposed to require a key to enter, but the lock has been busted for as long as Stiles has been stopping by. The whole lobby smells faintly of garbage left to rot in the sun, and when they step onto the worn carpet in front of the elevator bank, the additional scents of stale beer and urine puff into Stiles’ nostrils. 

“Charming place,” Derek mutters, pushing the button to summon the elevator. 

“Yeah, well, yours doesn’t look much better,” Stiles retorts. When the elevator finally comes, the light inside is flickering rapidly, but his eyes quickly adjust. His first contact, an older woman named Mrs. Gutierrez whose son used to work for him as an informant, lives on the third floor. When they knock on the door, a shuffling sound comes from behind it, and when it opens a crack, Stiles spies dark brown skin and a neat mass of black hair through the chains of no less than three deadbolts. 

“Mrs. Gutierrez, it’s Stiles,” he says, and she immediately makes a sound strangely similar to a coo. 

“Stiles!” The three deadbolts fall away, and once the door swings open, she pulls him into a hug that’s incredibly tight considering her petite frame. “It’s been too long! If I’d known you were coming, I would have made you something special.” 

“It was kind of a spur of the moment decision,” Stiles replies, stepping inside. “Otherwise, I would have brought you some wine.” She laughs, deep in her throat, before gently poking at one of his hickies. 

“Have you met someone? Someone nice?”

“Not yet,” he laughs. When he turns back to Derek, he can’t help but smirk. 

_See? Not unprofessional. Fuck you._

“This is Detective Hale. We're working on a case together. I need to ask if you know someone.” When he provides the description of Ennis to Mrs. Gutierrez, she immediately nods and points towards the ceiling. 

“He lives on the fourth floor. Apartment 409. Ricky used to visit him sometimes, even though I told him not to. I didn’t trust him.” 

“That’s because you’re the smartest woman I know,” Stiles says, only exaggerating slightly. 

For his fawning, he gets another tight hug and a sandwich bag full of homemade cookies shoved into the pocket of his jeans. 

They take the stairs up to the fourth floor, and as soon as they step into the hallway, Stiles smells something rank. 410 is on their immediate left, and the door is hanging wide open, lock busted, probably occupied by squatters. 409 is on the right, and when he steps towards it, his suspicions grow. 

He’s almost certain that there’s a rotting corpse behind the door. 

He’s not surprised that no one has called it in; frankly, the stench isn’t that different from how the building usually smells. He slides his gun from his holster into his palm, but he leaves the safety on for the time being. Derek takes a step back, obviously coiling up to slam his foot into the door, but Stiles stops him with a palm against his chest. 

“Dude. At least check the lock first.” 

“Don’t call me that,” Derek mutters. Stiles rolls his eyes and leans over to twist the knob, and the door creaks opens. He pushes on the door and steps back out of sight. As it swings wide, the smell hits him right in the face, and even though it’s still not the worst thing he’s ever smelled, he automatically presses his hand to his nose for a second. 

“Is anyone home?” he calls out, thumb still caressing the safety on his gun. 

“Detectives Stilinski and Hale, CBI!” Derek adds from he’s pressed against the wall, across the doorway from Stiles. “We’re looking for Ennis!” No sound comes from inside the apartment, not even the rustle of someone trying to remain hidden. They both call out again, and when the silence remains unbroken, Stiles looks across the doorway and raises an eyebrow. Derek nods and, simultaneously, they step around the edge of the doorway and into the apartment. 

It’s even more sparsely furnished than Isaac’s place. They enter into the kitchen, the counters of which are empty except for a few takeout containers. All the lights are off, and there must be thick curtains over the windows in the rest of the apartment, as the light from the hallway doesn’t penetrate much further than the first few rows of cracked linoleum. Stiles slowly steps forward, listening closely, gun held down by his thigh. 

The living room is clear. Behind him, Derek tugs open a curtain, allowing shafts of light to pierce through the gloom. There’s a sagging, beige couch sitting in the corner, splattered with dark stains that are almost certainly blood. Those same stains are on the threadbare rug stretched over the splintering floorboards. There’s a single door leading from the living room, closed tightly.

This time, Stiles lets Derek go first. He kicks the door open and immediately jumps aside. The smell grows stronger, but no booby traps or gunshots hit them. On a nod from Derek, Stiles approaches the room, bringing his gun up to shooting height. 

It quickly becomes clear that their weapons won’t be necessary. 

The bedroom is a disaster. The curtains are in a tangled pile on the ground and three of the drawers of the dresser in the corner are yawning open, revealing haphazardly folded jeans, underwear and socks. The top one is full of condoms, sex toys, floggers and whips that look stained with blood. Stiles only cursorily glances at these, because what’s on the bed is more important. 

It’s Ennis. His bald head is capped with dried blood, and he’s naked except for a pair of tattered boxers. His muscled torso has been rent to pieces, slashed open here, deeply bruised there. Stiles can see into his body; a few organs peek through the gashes. There’s broken glass scattered around the sheets, likely from the lamp that’s lying on the bed beside his head. While Stiles slides his gun back into his holster, Derek flings open the door of the attached bathroom. After a moment, he returns and holsters his gun as well. 

“No one in there. But there’s some dried blood in the bathtub and sink that we could type.” 

Stiles sighs. He kind of wants to lash out and kick something. He doesn’t have much faith that the room will be able to tell them much else, doesn’t know if it’ll even be able to tell them for sure if Ennis is definitively connected to the murders and disappearances. 

Instead of lashing out, he simply asks, “Do you want to call it in or should I?”


	5. Chapter 5

After Ennis, the trail goes cold. 

A week goes by, then two, without another body popping up. Stiles expects Derek to head back to San Diego but instead, he shows up at the station one morning in a shiny black Camaro with a back seat stuffed full of boxes of files from the other related cases. As soon as Stiles sees the sheer number of them, he immediately commandeers one of the two conference rooms in the station, grabs some markers from the supply closet and steals the extra coffee maker from underneath the kitchen sink. From his desk, he grabs three different spools of yarn: red, blue, green.

In two hours, he manages to fill the room with case related material. The largest wall is reserved for the current investigation. He uses sticky tack to pin up the photos of the seven street kids who are still missing. Beside them are crime scene photos of the three bodies they’ve already found and, above that row of photos, he adds pictures of Ennis, both alive and dead. On the adjacent wall, he tacks up up photos from Derek’s case files. He keeps Susan Kendrick's photo close to Moira’s and connects them with a piece of blue yarn. Above that is a file photo of their uncle, garnished with a sticky note marked with a large red question mark. 

After he pushes the conference table against one wall, he fills up the largest mug he can find with coffee and sits on the floor, leaning back against one of Derek’s boxes. He isn’t sure how long he stares at the wall for, glancing back and forth between the threads of yarn, all red except for the one connecting the Kendrick family together. 

“Ennis is the middleman,” he mutters to himself. That’s all they know about him; their investigation into him had turned up nothing of any real use. Stiles had gone with Isaac to interview some of the street kids who had met with Ennis before, but they hadn’t had much to offer either, except for chilling statements about how lucky they were to get out of his apartment in one piece. 

When Derek walks in, Stiles only glances at him momentarily. The guy’s looking more and more worn down with each day that passes. His beard is coming in thicker, and he’s taken to rubbing a palm against it. The only reason Stiles has noticed is that the loud _rasp_ it makes keeps interrupting his thoughts. There are a number of chairs scattered around the perimeter of the room, so he’s surprised when Derek sinks to the floor beside him after setting down yet another box. 

“Fuck,” Stiles sighs, running a hand through his hair. He showered last night, but his hair is already a mess again, sticking up in every direction. 

Derek just nods and slides his hand over his beard again.

_Rasp._

&.

Another week goes by with no leads and no bodies.

Every time he closes his eyes, Stiles sees the crime scenes. He could recite every case file from memory if asked, and he knows exactly what is in each of Derek’s boxes with only a cursory glance. 

He doesn’t remember the last time he slept for longer than three consecutive hours.

“You’re looking beat,” Scott tells him at their weekly dinner. They’re sitting on the back steps, the last remnants of a early summer sunset stretching out above them. The neighborhood is quiet, and Scott has a joint burning between his fingertips. When he offers it to Stiles, he accepts without even thinking twice. 

He’s not due for a drug test for another three months. He’s safe. 

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, inhaling deeply. “Tough case.”

“Maybe you should take some time off,” Scott says quietly, taking another pull off the joint. “Just a week or so. Derek can handle things for that long, right?”

“Yeah. Maybe,” Stiles replies, before he changes the topic. 

A week off, with only his mind for company, sounds like absolute hell.

&.

After a third week goes by, they decide to expand their horizons.

Stiles has a contact with one of the groups that live deep within the boundaries of the Preserve, commune style. The only way to reach them is to go two hours down the interstate, hook back through some small towns and go down roads bordered by trash strewn trailer parks and probable meth labs. It’s out of the way, but driving straight through the Preserve itself is not an option; the trails end eventually, giving way to tangles of trees ruled by mountain lions. 

They leave early Sunday morning. Stiles is jittering from the caffeine rushing through his veins, feet bouncing off the floorboards of the Camaro. The car obviously cost a fortune. The interior is leather, the seats are heated (Stiles turns his up as hot as he can stand), and it even has a goddamn backup camera. 

With a car like this, Stiles doesn’t know why Derek owns or chooses to live in the piece of crap apartment building. He could almost certainly afford to rent one of the McMansions on the other side of town, most of which have been standing empty since the recession. 

(Stiles looks them up on real estate websites sometimes, when it’s four in the morning and even the infomercials are starting to grate on him. He flicks through photos of the opulent houses, with their marble counters and sprawling dens, and tries to calculate how many years of his salary he’d have to pack away before he could afford to live in one.)

Derek drives easily, one hand resting on the steering wheel, the other on his right thigh, close to the gearshift. Every so often, Stiles finds himself glancing over at that hand, at the fingers in particular. They’re long and thick, calloused at the ends, and if Stiles concentrates enough, he’s pretty sure that he can imagine exactly what they’d feel like crooked inside of him. 

Not that that’s something he wants. It’s just a hobby he has, a thing he does when he’s bored, like a slightly more out of control version of imagining someone without clothes on. Even if he _did_ actually want Derek to do that to him, he’s pretty sure Derek wouldn’t bite. The man may be good at talking to their witnesses, but when it comes to talking to Stiles, his conversations still mostly consist of grunts, glares and the occasional snapped insult.

( _Jesus Christ._ Stiles still hears that sometimes when he’s lying on the couch half asleep. He hears Derek mutter that under his breath, feels a thick finger press into the hickies lining his neck.)

“Could you stop that?” Derek asks after they’ve been driving in silence for half an hour, not even the sound of the radio between them. 

“Stop what?” 

“You _know_ what. And don’t pull the ‘it’s a nervous habit’ card, because I know it’s because you drank too much caffeine. When was the last time you slept?”

“ _Again_ with the not sleeping,” Stiles mutters, planting one hand on his knee and forcing his foot to plant on the floor. “What’s with your obsession with my sleeping patterns? It’s almost like you actually give a shit.” Derek doesn’t answer, but it feels like a thundercloud has suddenly filled the car. When Stiles glances over, Derek’s fingers are white around the steering wheel. 

No matter how much Stiles pushes or annoys or taunts or bobs his knee or whistles, he can’t get Derek to say a single word for the rest of the drive. 

The silence echoes loud as church bells in his ears.

&.

As commune groups (or, as Stiles thinks of them, borderline cults) go, the one they’re connecting with is essentially benign. Still, they have a strict rule of no outsiders permitted, which means that they have to park at the gate to the community’s property and wait.

And wait. And wait. 

He tries his informant’s number, but it just rings and rings. Stiles assumes that means she’s on her way, but he still feels anxious. He leans against the Camaro and flicks his eyes around the small clearing, squinting to see through the gaps in the trees, swiveling around at any small movement. The feeling of being watched isn’t as strong as it was at Irving’s, but there’s still something in the back of his mind prodding him to stay alert. 

“It’s the coffee,” Derek says out of the blue. He’s been silent since they arrived, sitting on the hood, occasionally glancing at his cellphone. “Too much caffeine, not enough sleep. It’s making you paranoid, Stiles.” 

“I’m not paranoid, _Derek_ ,” he spits back, trying to make the word sound as mocking as possible, as he comes around to sit beside Derek, feet braced against the front bumper. He expects Derek to snap at him, maybe even push him away, but he does neither. He sits still, arms crossed over his chest, staring at the rusted gate they’re not permitted to cross. 

“What if she doesn’t show?” he says. “What if we drove down here for nothing?”

“Well, it’s not like we were getting much done back there,” Stiles mutters. “At least maybe these wackjobs will give us _something_.” 

“I’m sure your informant wouldn’t appreciate you calling her that.” 

“It’s a term of endearment.” On the other side of the gate, there’s a rustling and a young woman in a pair of denim shorts and a tank top comes striding through the trees. She’s barefoot, per usual, and her short bob has a number of leaves stuck in it. 

“Malia,” he calls, sliding off the hood. “What took you so long?” 

“I felt like taking a nap,” she says with a shrug, nimbly climbing over the gate. “I figured you’d wait.” 

“Well, you figured right,” Stiles grudgingly admits. “Now, what do you have for us?”

Malia gives them a name, a name of someone else in town. He’s a creep who preys on street kids, preyed on her before the commune took her in. By the sounds of things, he’s not as bad as Ennis, but that’s not the important part. 

What’s more important is the description she gives of the tattoo he has on his back. 

“Right there,” Malia says, spinning Stiles around and poking him hard between his shoulder blades. “Three spirals. Like the one you told me about.” 

“Like this?” Derek asks, drawing the spiral in the dirt and dust that accumulated on the Camaro’s hood over the course of their drive. 

“Exactly like that,” Malia says with a firm nod. 

Even though it may very well be a dead end, Stiles still feels like pumping his fist in the air.

They finally have a goddamn lead.

&.

“So,” Derek says as they slowly make their way back down the winding road leading to the nearest town. Malia hadn’t been able to give them an exact address, but she gave them another name, a kid that she used to hang out with who almost certainly knew the guy’s whereabouts.

“So what?” Stiles asks. His eyelids are growing heavy, and he forces them to stay open. He needs coffee or sugar, maybe a bag of candy at the next gas station. Some beef jerky would be a bonus. 

“Did you sleep with her too?”

Stiles just barely resists grabbing the steering wheel and pulling them into the ditch. Instead, he curls his fingers tightly into his palms.

“I don’t think that’s any of your damn business,” he eventually responds.

(The answer is yes. It was once, a few years ago, just after he joined the CBI, before Malia had become part of the commune. He’d met her at a party, where he was supposed to be busting some kid for being a meth distributor. 

He’d gotten the guy, eventually, but he’d gone upstairs with Malia first. She’d left scratches on his back and bites on his shoulders that hadn’t healed for days. He was surprised they didn’t leave scars.) 

“Do you have _any_ informants that you haven’t slept with?” Derek snaps. “Or do I have to worry about you being emotionally compromised every single time you call in a contact?”

“I didn’t sleep with Mrs. Gutierrez. _Or_ her son. Look me straight in the eye and tell me you’ve never slept with one of yours,” he says, twisting in his seat so he can properly face Derek. “C’mon. Do it.”

Derek slams on the brakes hard enough for Stiles’ seatbelt to dig into his chest. He yanks the wheel hard to the right and pulls over, sending a cloud of dust and rocks flying into the air. He stays still for a few moments before he turns and stares at Stiles with clouded hazel eyes. 

“I’ve never slept with one of my informants,” he says. “Never even considered it.” 

“Well, we aren’t all boy scouts like you.” He believes Derek, but there’s something else in his eyes, something that he decides to push for. “You ever sleep with one of your partners?”

Derek’s face immediately turns red, right up to the tips of his ears. Stiles laughs, an _a-ha_ sound that sounds cruel even to his own ears. 

“You have, haven’t you? Jesus, even _I_ haven’t even done that. Sure thought about it though. I mean, have you _seen_ Parrish?”

“We are _not_ having this conversation,” Derek says, yanking the steering wheel and careening back onto the road. 

Stiles smirks the entire way back to town. 

&.

They find the kid Malia mentioned exactly where she said he would be: in a group home on the edge of downtown.

His name is Liam. He’s only eighteen, and he looks even younger. He’s skittish, talks a mile a minute, swivels his head around just as fast. He asks for cigarettes before anything else, and when Stiles can’t offer him any, he simply shrugs before moving into his spiel. 

As soon as Stiles mentions the tattoo, Liam nods enthusiastically, fingers twitching against his knees. 

“I know exactly where he lives. It’s just outside of town, in the woods. Really creepy place.” 

“Can you take us there?” Derek asks. As soon as the words leave his mouth, Liam’s demeanor completely changes. His bright, almost manic eyes darken, and he presses his teeth deep into his lip, hard enough to make a drop of blood well up. He shakes his head almost violently and, somehow, his fingers jitter even faster. 

“No way,” he says. “Fuck that. The things he asked me to do…” A shudder runs through the kid’s entire body and, for a moment, he looks so much like Isaac had when talking about the missing street kids that Stiles blinks in surprise. “I’ll give you the address, but I’m going nowhere near that damn place. And if _you’re_ going there, bring your guns. The guy’s fucking insane.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Stiles says before slapping a ten dollar bill into Liam’s hand and telling him to go buy some cigarettes.

&.

They have to drive back out of town, in the opposite direction of the commune. The driveway leading to the man’s house is so covered in overhanging trees that Derek initially goes right by it. When Stiles points out that he saw an address sign matching the number they’re looking for, Derek slams on the brakes and whips them over to the side of the road. He backs up on the shoulder, sending dirt and rocks spraying against the windows. 

“You couldn’t have pointed that out _before_ I drove by?” he mutters, whipping the car around to face the driveway. 

“I didn’t _see_ it before you drove by,” Stiles snaps in return as Derek starts edging down the driveway. It’s all too similar to Irving Walsh’s, in the way that it’s little more than two deep ruts, in the way the sun barely penetrates through the thick trees, leaving them in something like twilight. 

A warm haze of déjà vu floods over Stiles’ brain and, instinctively, he reaches for the comforting weight of his gun, resting in the holster on his hip.

“I don’t like this,” he says. “Something feels wrong.” As soon as the words leave his mouth, Stiles expects Derek to make some snarky comment about his paranoia popping back up, but when he looks over at Derek, the man looks pale and worried. 

“Me neither.” Derek pulls the car over as far as he can and turns it off. “Maybe we should take things on foot from here.”

“Good idea.” Stiles slides out of the car and pops the latch on his holster. The ground is scattered with dead leaves, some of them black around the edges from being buried underneath snow all winter. They crunch underneath his feet as he steps out into one of the ruts that form the driveway. A swift breeze runs through the trees, carrying with it a smell that makes Stiles’ back stiffen.

Decay. 

They walk inside the treeline, keeping the driveway on their left. The further they walk, the stronger the smell gets. Stiles tries not to breathe through his nose, but his eyes start watering anyway. He moves to wipe at them mid-step and, in the split second before his left foot touches the ground, Derek’s palm slams into his chest, knocking him back a few paces. 

“What the hell are you-“

“Look.” Derek carefully nudges aside a few leaves to reveal a massive bear trap. It’s a little rusted around the edges, but it still looks sharp enough to sever Stiles’ foot. Just thinking about it makes him shudder, and he pats Derek’s shoulder, taking a moment to get his breath back.

“Maybe it would be safer to walk up the driveway,” he says, to which Derek vehemently shakes his head. 

“No. We just have to be careful. Watch where you step.” 

It takes twenty more minutes of slogging through the trees before the guy’s house finally comes into view. Along the way, they come across three more bear traps. Stiles also stops Derek from triggering a tripwire set at ankle height. When they trace the wire, it leads to a shotgun perched in a nearby tree. It’s a little rusted as well, and there’s no telling how long it’s been outside, but that doesn’t mean Stiles trusts it to _not_ blow their heads off. 

The house, when they finally reach it, looks like an old smuggler’s cabin. It’s an ugly, squat thing with black shingles that are peeling back along the edges. There’s no light behind any of the windows, but the front door is propped open and faint music is wafting from somewhere inside. The smell has grown even worse, strong enough that Stiles wishes he had some menthol to wipe under his nostrils. 

“We should have called for back-up,” he mutters, glancing over at Derek. Both of them are using a massive oak tree as cover, pressed together from shoulder to hip and, although his mind is racing with all the ways the situation could proceed from here, there’s still a part of him that can’t help but notice just how warm Derek is. 

“Too late now,” Derek replies. “By the time they find this place, it’ll be dark, and there’s no way that we can get out now without him seeing us. We have to move.” Before Stiles can reply, Derek darts out from behind the tree. Even in a crouched position, he moves incredibly fast, and he’s pressed against the front of the cabin in a matter of seconds. Stiles takes a moment to take a breath and mold his hands firmer against his pistol before he too darts across the narrow strip of dirt that serves as the cabin’s front yard, willing himself not to trip. He’s come a long way since his high school days, where he was always covered in bruises from stumbling or falling, but sometimes it comes back at the most inopportune of times. 

Thankfully, this is not one of those times. 

He makes it to the cabin and drops into a crouch, back pressed against the rough wood underneath the window on the right side of the door. The music is louder now, and he can also hear loud, clunking footsteps. He catches Derek’s eye across the way and nods. Derek returns the gesture before leaning forward far enough to knock on the doorframe. 

“Kincaid Morris, we’re with the CBI,” he yells. “We’d like to ask you a few questions!”

The shotgun blast that splits the air also tears through the edge of the doorframe, right where Derek’s hand was only moments before. Derek dives out of the way, and when he returns to a crouch, he’s holding one hand against his undoubtedly ringing ear. There are small cuts littering his cheek and tiny rivulets of blood running down into his stubble. When he glances over at Stiles, his eyes are darker than usual, and his jaw is locked. 

“Kincaid, drop the gun!” Stiles yells, slowly creeping closer to the door. He can still hear footsteps inside, but they don’t seem to be coming any closer. They’re just frantically pacing back and forth. “We aren’t going to take you in, it’s just some questions!”

“Fuck you!” The shotgun splits the air again and this time, it shatters the window above Stiles’ head. Glass sprinkles into his hair and down the back of his shirt and he curses, knowing that he’s going to be covered in micro-cuts. There’s a quiet click, unmistakably the sound of the gun popping open in order to be reloaded, and Stiles immediately darts into the cabin. 

In a matter of seconds, he surveys the living room. There’s a fireplace on the right and a few bookshelves on the left. The furniture is tattered, and the smell of decay is accented by dirt, soot and gunpowder. There’s a metal table in the middle of the room and while Stiles doesn’t know if it’ll stop a shotgun blast, it’s certainly better than the alternative.

Before he can dive for it, Derek appears at his shoulder, already reaching out for the table leg. Stiles grabs the other one and they yank it to the ground with a crash. It’s wide enough for both of them to shelter behind, so long as they press together.

“Kincaid, put the gun down!” Stiles yells again, peering over the edge of the table. The guy is in the kitchen, the entrance to which they’re facing; Stiles can see his shadow dancing across the floor. The man yells something indecipherable before he whips around into the doorway. In the second that passes before Stiles ducks back behind the table, he realizes that the man is _huge_. He’s bald, same as Ennis, and his shoulders easily fill the doorway. 

His shotgun is also huge. 

The blast flies by a few inches above their heads. It slams harmlessly into the wall, but Stiles isn’t stupid enough to think that the next one will miss. If he moves quick enough, he should be able to get Kincaid in the knee or the arm. 

Derek, apparently, has the same idea. 

He spins, rises to his knees and fires twice over the table, all in one swift motion. His bullets, along with Derek’s, thud into the meat of Kincaid’s thigh, and the man makes a sound that Stiles is fairly certain he’ll hear again later, when he’s trying to tip over the cliff into sleep. 

It’s a _howl_. 

Kincaid fires the shotgun again, but it goes wide, slamming into the bricks over the fireplace. He drops to his knees and Stiles leaps to his feet, raising his gun so that it’s trained in the middle of Kincaid’s forehead. 

“Seriously, we just wanted to ask some questions,” he says. “Was the shotgun really necessary?”

“I won’t tell you anything,” Kincaid says. The sun glints off his teeth and after a moment, Stiles realizes that both of his canines are made from metal and sharpened to points. “You’ll never find them.”

“Find who?” Derek replies. Kincaid just grins and raises his hand. There’s something glinting there as well, but by the time Stiles realizes what it is, it’s too late. 

In one swift movement, Kincaid reaches up and sinks his artificial claws, which consist of metal caps over the middle three fingers on his right hand, into his own throat. He hits his artery on the first try; blood spurts across the room, gushes between his fingers. Some of it splashes Stiles in the face, even from ten feet away. 

“Call for EMS!” Derek yells, holstering his gun and dropping to his knees in front of Kincaid. Stiles quickly yanks his phone from his pocket and dials, keeping his gun in one hand and his eyes on the scene. 

“Who are you talking about?” Derek asks, one hand on Kincaid’s shoulder, the other pressed against the gushing wounds on his throat. Within seconds, Derek’s fingers are covered in blood. “Give us something.” Kincaid grins, the cracks in his teeth filled in with crimson, eyes wide and bulging. 

“Fuck you,” he gurgles, before spitting directly into Derek’s face. 

After that, he doesn’t say a thing.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy holidays y'all! sorry for the delay with posting this chapter.
> 
> please note the new 'Past Kate Argent/Derek Hale' tag!

They wait for the paramedics on the porch. Derek is covered in blood; when he scratches at the back of his hand, dried flakes of it fall to the dirt. There’s glass down the back of Stiles’ shirt, scratching him whenever he shifts, but he doesn’t dare shake it out; it’s best not to do anything until the technicians arrive and do whatever they need. 

Neither of them say a word. By the time an ambulance with the lights off pulls up, followed by a couple of squad cars, Stiles has started to get used to the smell of decay emanating from the very ground itself. 

The next few hours blur by. Other detectives arrive at the scene and start combing through Kincaid’s house while technicians start investigating the nearby forest. Stiles wants to stick around to see what they find, but he’s told by the commanding officer from the nearest CBI detachment that he’s not to remain under any circumstances. 

“Neither are you,” the officer says to Derek. “You both clearly need some sleep. There’s a hotel just down the road. It isn’t anything fancy, but there’s no bedbugs. Get some sleep and come back in the morning. If we need you, we’ll call you.”

“Yes, sir,” they both answer. 

For some reason, it irks Stiles that the two of them are completely synchronized.

&.

The commanding officer is right about the hotel; it’s nearly identical to the thousands of other mediocre hotels scattered along the highways of California, but it has free internet, and the outside doesn’t look nearly as scummy as some of the other places Stiles has stayed in.

More importantly, it has a bed where he can, hopefully, get some sleep. 

Derek takes charge once they get to the counter, asking for one room with two beds. It throws Stiles off for a few seconds, but by the time Derek looks back over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow, he’s already over it. Getting two rooms would just add even more paperwork to the already teetering pile of expense reports he has sitting on his desk. 

Derek claims first shower, and while Stiles would love to clean the numerous glass scratches on his back, he doesn’t protest; he knows what it feels like to be soaked in someone else’s blood. While he showers, Stiles brings in the extra clothes he threw in Derek’s trunk, just in case. After that, he pulls off his shirt, shakes out the tiny pieces of glass still stuck in it and flops on the bed. It’s not the comfiest in the world, but the sheets are clean, and the pillows are almost as soft as the one he keeps on his couch, the one he’s had since he was a kid. 

He checks his phone, which is nearly dead, and finds a few texts from Scott, asking if he can come to dinner tomorrow night. He texts back a quick _maybe_ before checking his lone voicemail, which turns out to be from Isaac. 

_“Hey, uh, just thought I’d check in. I haven’t seen anything weird the last few days, and no one else has disappeared that I’ve noticed, but I’ll keep looking.”_ After clearing his throat, his voice slips down deeper, into the distinct fuck-me tone that manages to hook Stiles every time, even when he actually wants to strangle the damn guy. _“I’m not taking any clients tonight. I don’t know if you’re in town but just in case, I’ll leave the key in the usual spot.”_

Stiles starts calculating how long it would take him to get back to Beacon Hills if he snatched Derek’s car keys and left immediately, but before he can think about the matter too seriously, the bathroom door opens, letting out a cloud of steam. 

Derek’s wearing only a towel, slung low along his waist. The hair on his head is a tousled mess, but Stiles is more distracted by his hair covering his chest. It looks thick enough to run his fingers through, and it tapers down the center of his stomach, disappearing underneath the line of his towel. There’s also a thick line of scar tissue parallel to his navel, traveling around his side to his back. Thankfully, Derek seems to be too busy rummaging through his duffel bag to notice Stiles staring. He finally digs out some clothes, and when he turns to head back into the bathroom, Stiles has to bite back a groan. 

He’s never really understood the appeal of back muscles before, but he thinks that he just received enlightenment. 

When Derek emerges again a few moments later, dressed in a pair of black sweatpants and a matching t-shirt, Stiles nearly crashes into him in his urge to get into the bathroom. 

He showers as quickly as he can, wincing as soap runs into the numerous cuts on his back. He runs his fingers through his hair and tugs on a loose pair of boxers and an old t-shirt before heading back out into the main room. The tiny television perched on top of the dresser is still silent, and so is Derek. He’s sitting cross-legged on his bed, three case files lying closed beside him. There’s what looks like a novel on his other side, but it’s untouched as well. Instead, he’s simply holding his head in his hands, fingers minutely twitching in his hair. 

The silence is thick, almost stifling, and Stiles knows that if he doesn’t break it, it’s going to smother him. So, tossing his damp towel on the floor beside his bed, he clears his throat and waits until Derek raises his head. 

“So,” he says, trying his best to plaster on a convincing smirk, even though just keeping his eyes open is a struggle, “are you going to tell me about the detective that you fucked?”

In the time it takes Stiles to blink, Derek leaps to his feet and crosses the room. Before Stiles can _move_ , Derek grabs him by the front of his shirt and shoves backwards, slamming him into the nearest wall. Stiles raises his arm, preparing to elbow Derek in the face, but Derek grabs both of his wrists and pins them as well. He looks downright murderous, eyes dark and glowering, teeth bared. 

“What is your _problem_?” he hisses, fingers tightening around Stiles’ wrists. Stiles isn’t a weak guy, but when he tries to wriggle out of Derek’s grip, he can’t move an inch. It’s like being pinned by concrete. 

“Because I’m curious,” Stiles snaps, hoping that he manages to hide his hiss of pain as Derek squeezes harder. “Sorry for actually wanting to know _something_ about you.” 

“All you do is push,” Derek continues, like he didn’t hear Stiles respond. “Like this is a damn game. Even if I _did_ sleep with one of my partners, it’d be none of your goddamn business.”

“I still don’t believe you.” Even though he’s sure that Derek could easily snap his wrists with one quick movement, he can’t help but be distracted. Derek smells _very_ good and, being this close, Stiles can easily track a wayward drop of water as it courses down his cheek. An idea occurs to him, and he licks his lips, straining as best as he can against Derek’s grip, until he’s close enough to feel Derek’s breath against his mouth. “But if you _really_ haven’t, we could fix that.”

“What?”

“I’ve got condoms and lube in my bag. I can just turn around and you can fuck me till I can’t walk straight. I’ll let you do it.” He licks his lips again and watches as Derek’s face stays impossibly hard to read. Eventually, his grip around Stiles’ wrists loosens and then disappears completely. 

“You’re delusional,” Derek says. There’s a hitch in his voice, and he refuses to meet Stiles’ eyes. It’s not the kind of reaction Stiles was expecting; he’d been predicting more of a typical alpha male meltdown, but instead, Derek’s face has melted into something softer than usual, and it almost looks like he’s _retreating_ as he steps back towards his bed. “You’re a piss poor detective,” he adds, almost as an afterthought, reaching for one of the case files scattered around him.

“Yeah, you keep telling yourself that,” Stiles mutters, rubbing at his sore wrists. “Just remember, it’s my informants that have gotten us this far on the case. What the fuck have your precious files done?” 

Derek doesn’t answer that. He doesn’t say a word for the rest of the night, even when Stiles flicks on the television, steering it to a channel that’s already started to show infomercials. He texts Scott for a bit, but it’s not long before his eyes slam shut of their own accord. As soon as that happens, he drops his phone onto the nightstand and wriggles under the thick blanket. 

When he last glances over at Derek, he’s still sitting up, still motionless, staring down at the file in his lap. 

Still silent.

&.

The next time Stiles wakes up, the volume on the television has been substantially lowered. When he glances sideways at the window, the parking lot is still lit by the sickly orange glow of the streetlights. He hasn’t been asleep for long, but he still feels more rested than he has in weeks. Maybe even months. After a moment, it occurs to him that something must have woken him up, and he rolls onto his back.

Derek is sitting on the edge of Stiles’ bed, staring at the flickering television, hands loosely clasped in his lap. 

“Derek, what the hell?” Stiles asks, sitting up and rubbing at his eyes. “You sleepwalking or something?” After a moment, Derek jolts slightly, like he’s been shocked. He shifts so that he’s facing Stiles head-on, and it’s very clear that he’s fully awake, even though the bags underneath his eyes seem to have grown considerably in the hours since Stiles last saw him. 

“Her name was Kate,” he says, voice quiet but hard as steel. “She was my partner for three years, and I didn’t _fuck_ her.” He hisses the word like it’s painful to say, like choking on razor wire. “She betrayed me.”

“How?” Stiles asks. For what feels like an eternity, Derek remains silent and still, eyes gazing down at the rumpled blanket. Stiles itches to prompt him to continue talking, but he has a feeling saying anything out of turn might just end with him getting an elbow in the face, so he forces himself to remain silent, nails digging into his palms. 

“The case,” Derek finally continues, waving a hand at the files that are now neatly stacked on his nightstand. “She’s the reason we never completely solved it.” 

“What are you talking about?” Stiles is intrinsically familiar with all of the information contained in Derek’s files on the case, and he knows that they had a suspect that seemed good for all the murders based on witness testimony and physical evidence, a woman named Jennifer Blake, who was found dead in her apartment of an apparently self-inflicted gunshot wound before they could arrest her. After her death, the murders had stopped. 

“Whoever was actually behind the murders, they offered her money,” Derek continues. His gaze is still directed at the blanket, and his voice sounds hollow, disconnected, like the words are coming out on autopilot. “A lot of money, if she would kill Jennifer so that we’d stop investigating. And she did. She shot her in the head and staged it like a suicide, and I only found out because she told me about it. She _bragged_ about it, and she told me that she could probably get them to pay me off just to stay quiet.” 

“What happened to her?” Stiles asks, sliding closer to the end of the bed, close enough so that his feet bump into Derek’s thigh. He’s fairly certain that this is the longest uninterrupted conversation they’ve ever had, that this is the biggest glimpse into Derek’s life he’s actually gotten, and his innate curiosity demands that he do nothing to fuck the moment up. 

“They killed her too,” Derek answers. “The day after she told me. Made it look like a home invasion gone wrong. I had no evidence, nothing to prove what she had told me, but I know that it was them.” He pauses for a moment before he shifts, slides up the bed until he’s sitting beside Stiles’ hip. Slowly, he reaches forward and drops his hand to the side of Stiles’ neck, fingers curling into the wisps of hair brushing against Stiles’ nape. “She betrayed me, and she was still double the detective that you are. Don’t bring it up again,” he whispers, leaning in closer, until their noses are almost brushing together, “or I’ll go to your father and tell him that you’re sleeping with one of your informants. That you’re sleeping with a rentboy who leaves his marks all over you. I will _ruin_ you, Stiles. Do you understand?” 

“Message received,” Stiles replies, looking up into Derek’s dark eyes. “Just remember, if you ruin me, I’ll ruin you. I don’t know how, but I’ll find something, Derek. Do _you_ understand?” He cranes forward slightly, until his lips brush against the rough skin beside Derek’s lips. He expects Derek to flinch back or to grip his neck even tighter or to tense up. 

He doesn’t move. 

“Do _you_ understand?” he repeats, reaching up and wrapping his fingers around Derek’s wrist. 

“Yes,” Derek mutters. His head shifts, and when he whispers his next words, Stiles can feel his lips forming them against Stiles’ cheek. “I understand.” 

With that, he gets up and slips back under the covers on his own bed. Stiles watches for a few moments, eyes lingering on the blankets as Derek shifts, before he stretches back out. 

He’s wide awake and hard, boxers tented. He momentarily thinks about sneaking into the bathroom and taking care of himself, but he’s not in the right headspace for that. 

So instead, he props himself up against the headboard, stares at the flickering light of the television, and tries very hard not to glance back over at Derek.

Eventually, in the middle of an infomercial shelling some kind of copper bracelet, he falls asleep again.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last update of 2017 (probably)! thank you everyone for the lovely comments and kudos, they mean the world to me! <3

When Stiles next wakes up, his phone is going off. He takes a moment to wipe some of the drool away from his mouth before he flails out and grabs it. The number is unfamiliar, and it turns out to belong to the commanding officer from the local CBI detachment. 

“Detective Stilinski, we have some things from Kincaid’s cabin down at the detachment that you and your partner should see.” 

“We’ll be right down,” Stiles says before hanging up, tossing his phone onto the other pillow and flipping onto his back. The alarm clock on the table separating his bed from Derek’s reads 5:30. It’s early, but it’s the longest he’s slept in months. 

That being said, he could still go for some coffee. 

At first glance, Derek looks like he’s still asleep; he’s on his back, blankets pulled up to his chest, head lying in the space between the two pillows. But as soon as Stiles swings his legs over the edge of his bed, he sits up and shoves his blankets towards his feet. 

“I’ll go get some coffee,” he says, reaching over the edge of the bed and pulling on his trousers from the previous day. Stiles doesn’t bother to answer. He slides off the bed, turns the television off and heads into the bathroom to try and make himself look half respectable. 

The stubble coating his jaw and cheeks is starting to look downright scraggly, so he rummages around in his bag and, buried at the bottom, finds a travel sized can of shaving cream and a razor that might be a few months old. It’s a bit dull and cuts open his face a few times, but by the time Derek returns with coffee, Stiles actually recognizes himself when he looks in the mirror. 

He finishes his coffee before they’re barely out of the parking lot. While he appreciates the rush of caffeine settling into him, he misses the distraction that the drink offered. He tries to keep himself amused by tearing off the edges of the foam cup and dropping them through the lid into the last dark dregs of liquid but, unsurprisingly, it doesn't keep him distracted for long. 

“Stiles.”

It takes a moment for him to realize that Derek actually said his name. They’re parked at a red light, and when Stiles glances over, Derek is looking at him. Or, at least, Stiles _thinks_ that’s where he’s looking; the reflective aviator glasses that he's wearing, despite the fact that the sun is barely over the horizon, make it difficult to tell. 

“Last night,” Derek begins. His fingers are tight around the wheel, knuckles stark white. “That wasn’t appropriate.”

“Which part?” Stiles snorts. “Look Derek. We both said some shit, alright? Let’s get over it. We’ve got something more important to deal with right now.”

“Right,” Derek says, stepping on the gas as the light turns green. “Did the commanding officer say anything about what they found?”

“Nothing specific. He sounded pretty freaked out though.” Stiles doesn’t know what could possibly be waiting for them down at the detachment that would be worse than the things they've already seen.

Maybe the commanding officer just has a weak stomach.

&. 

The bullpen of the detachment is filled with messy cubicles and smells like coffee that’s been sitting on the burner too long. There are three conference rooms located at the back of the bullpen, and the commanding officer is waiting for them in the middle one. When Stiles and Derek step in, they almost immediately bump into a stack of stuff. 

It looks like Kincaid’s entire cabin has been transported into the room. There are stacks of books, each of them individually wrapped in plastic, in the corner, wobbling ominously. Cardboard boxes are scattered around the place, their contents sealed in plastic as well. There’s a TV sitting on a stand pushed against one wall, with an honest-to-goodness VHS player underneath it. The _on_ button is glowing green, and there are four tapes stacked on top, labeled with writing Stiles can’t read from his current position. 

“Holy shit,” Stiles remarks, trying to find a place to stand where he won’t knock something over. “This is all from that asshole’s house?” 

“All of it.” The commanding officer is pallid, and there are beads of sweat gathering around his hairline, even though the room is air conditioned. It almost looks like he has a fever, and Stiles has to resist the urge to go slather on six layers of hand sanitizer. 

“Are those clothes?” Derek asks, nodding towards one of the cardboard boxes.

“Yes. One of three boxes we found. They were in a trunk in Kincaid’s bedroom, under the bed. The other two are still in the lab, being swabbed. But as for that box, well…” The man trails off for a moment before clearing his throat and continuing. “There’s all different sizes in there. Some of the stuff looks like it could fit a five year old.”

“Street kids are usually pretty small,” Stiles mutters.

“Street kids?”

“Yeah. Our informant told us that Kincaid used to take the local kids, the ones no one really looked after, back to his cabin. Apparently he did some pretty horrible things to them.” 

“Well, that would certainly explain what we found on the clothes.” The commanding officer reaches into the box of clothes and pulls out the first piece, ensconced in a clear plastic evidence bag, and rolls it over so that the bag is label side down, which gives them a better glimpse at it. It’s a light blue t-shirt, littered in stains. Most of them are the dark brown of dried blood, but there are others that are harder to identify at a quick glance. 

“Do all of the clothes look like this?” Stiles asks. 

“Most of them. The lab is going to try and ID who they belong to based on the blood, but I’m not sure how much luck they’ll have. Some of the clothes look pretty old. I have two kids that are teenagers now, and some of the clothes in that pile haven’t been in style since they were little.” 

“How many years are you talking?” Derek asks. 

“Ten, at least.” 

“What’s with the VCR?” Stiles asks, nodding towards the television. “Haven’t you guys updated to DVD yet?” Somehow, the commanding offier grows even paler as he crosses the room and turns the television on. 

“The tapes are from Kincaid’s as well. I think it might be better if you just watch them. If you can’t get past the first one, I’ll understand.” He presses play and hurriedly leaves the room, muttering something about needing more coffee. Stiles’ stomach briefly lurches as he turns his attention to the screen and perches himself on the edge of the conference table, since every chair is taken up by a box or stack. 

The tape is a little grainy, but no worse than some of the surveillance camera videos he's waded through in the past. It’s focused on a forest clearing; the ground is covered in fallen leaves, and there’s snow clinging to the base of some of the nearby trees. There’s a faint light in the background, barely bigger than a pinprick on the screen. There are two teenagers standing in front of the camera, and when the cameraman zooms in slightly, Stiles has to suck in a breath. 

He recognizes the boy on the left from their files back in Beacon Hills, one of the kids that Isaac described to him. His name is Lucas. He’s on the short side, sixteen years old. His hair is a mess, and there’s dried blood coating his upper lip. He doesn’t recognize the boy on the right, who's a little larger, broader in the shoulders, with a shock of thick black hair. He’s cleaner than Lucas, but his clothes are more tattered. 

“Now boys, you know why you’re here.” The voice behind the camera is definitely Kincaid’s, and it makes bile rise in Stiles’ throat, especially when the dead man chuckles. “Only one of you can move on from here. You know that, right?” Lucas, nods, tears streaming steadily down his face. The other boy stays still, jaw set.

“Oscar, you understand, right?” 

“I don’t want to do this,” the other boy (Oscar, apparently) says. “He’s never done anything to me. Why should I hurt him?” 

“Because if you don’t hurt him, I’ll hurt you. Simple. Besides, if you survive this round, you’ll be closer to _them_.”

“I don’t even know who _they_ are!” 

“They’re the ones who will make sure you always have a home. They’ll take care of you for the rest of your life. All you gotta do is earn your place.” 

“I can take care of myself.” Oscar spits on the ground and from behind the camera, Kincaid growls, a deep, rumbling sound that makes Stiles shudder. 

“Fight Lucas. Or I’ll tear your fucking throat out. Got it?” Tears start falling from Oscar’s eyes, but he nods and turns to face Lucas.

“Lucas, I’m sorry,” Oscar replies quietly before he runs across the clearing. As he moves, Stiles jumps forward and slams pause, rewind, pause again. It stops with Oscar in mid-step, and Stiles cranes forward until his nose is almost pressed right against the screen. Static tickles his skin. 

“Holy fuck,” he whispers, reaching out and brushing his finger against the screen. “Derek, they’re wearing fucking claws. Both of them.”

“Like Kincaid’s?” 

“Yeah. I think so.” He presses play again, and Oscar crashes into Lucas’ chest, claws descending towards the smaller boy’s throat. 

The next few moments are nothing less than a bloodbath, but Stiles forces himself to keep watching as Oscar literally tears the smaller boy to pieces. The trees are quickly soaked in dark blood, and by the time Oscar leans back onto his knees, chest heaving, there’s blood dripping from the ends of his long black hair as well. Tears are streaking down his face, cutting through the gore plastered there, and after a moment, he tilts his head back and _screams_. It’s the most pained sound Stiles has ever heard in his entire life, and it makes his stomach lurch again. 

“Excellent,” Kincaid _purrs_ , and the camera shakes slightly as he comes closer. “Good, Oscar. You’re coming along so well. Soon…” He trails off and reaches out, hand coming into view in front of the camera. He’s wearing his own claws, and he uses the tip of one to trace a design into the space between Oscar’s heaving shoulder blades. 

Stiles immediately recognizes it as the triad spiral. 

“Soon, we might be able to give you one of those. Now, start digging.” 

The video ends. 

Stiles ejects the tape and sets it aside before he turns back to face Derek. His hands are clasped in his lap, and his skin is bloodless, standing out in stark contrast against his ink-black stubble.

“We need to watch the other ones,” Derek says. “We have to.” Stiles nods and slides off the table, clapping his hand against Derek’s shoulder. 

It’s impossible to notice just by looking, but he can _feel_ Derek trembling. 

“I’ll go get more coffee.”

&.

For the rest of the morning, the conference room functions as a morbid movie theater.

The other three tapes are much the same as the first. Two of the videos are older and grainier, and as soon as Stiles presses play, Derek leans forward in his chair, fingers digging into his coffee cup so hard that it springs a leak. 

“One of yours?” Stiles asks unnecessarily; he’s spent so much time staring at the board in the conference room back home that he recognizes the faces from Derek’s files, even if he can’t necessarily recall all of the names. 

Derek just nods and doesn't say a word until the video is over. 

It looks like all the videos were filmed in the same spot at different times of the year. The more Stiles rewinds and fast-forwards, the more he’s struck with a sense of recognition. While the fourth video plays from the beginning for the third time, he reaches backwards blindly until his fingers find a folder filled with high resolution pictures of Kincaid’s property. He shuffles through them quickly, barely noticing the agonized screams coming from the television.

After his fourth glance through the photos, it _clicks_ , almost audibly, in his mind. 

“We gotta go back out to Kincaid’s,” he replies, downing the rest of his cold coffee before sliding off the table and bolting out the door on wobbly legs. By the time he gets out to the parking lot, Derek has caught up to him. 

“I’m driving,” he says simply. 

Kincaid’s property is still swarming with technicians and other detectives, combing the cabin for any other clues. The smell of decay is still thick in the air, and Stiles grabs a shovel that’s been left leaning beside the front door. He doesn’t think about where he’s going; he lets his unconscious mind make the connection, following what feel like hooks tugging underneath his skin. 

After ten minutes of stomping through the woods, he stops. The stench of rot is overwhelming, and he slams the point of the shovel into the hard ground. 

“This is the place,” Derek says, glancing down at the file containing the pictures of the property. Stiles nods and shove the blade of the shovel into the ground again, sending dirt and moss spewing through the air. 

Each strike of the shovel makes the air smell even worse. 

Stiles isn’t sure how long he digs. Eventually, there’s a rustle as Derek shrugs his jacket onto the ground and takes the shovel from Stiles’ hand without a word. When Stiles tries to protest, Derek shoves him backwards. 

“Your hands are bleeding,” he says, digging the blade into the two feet deep hole Stiles has managed to create. “You’re going to contaminate the scene.”

When Stiles looks down, he realizes that Derek is right. Blisters have formed along his palms, and each of them has popped. His hands are covered in blood and clear pus, and he wipes them off on his thighs, smearing his khakis.

Fuck it. They’re ugly pants anyways. 

Derek digs faster than him, muscles straining underneath his button-up. Eventually, he pulls off his tie and pops open the first three buttons on the shirt, revealing some of his chest hair, and if it weren’t for the sheer strength of the rotten smell in the air, Stiles would _definitely_ be distracted.

Only a few more minutes go by before Derek’s shovel hits something that is decidedly _not_ dirt. The air becomes even more putrid, and Stiles covers his mouth and nose as he leans over to glance down into the hole, which is easily four feet deep now.

Derek sifts some loose dirt aside with the blade of the shovel and there, peeking through, is a piece of mottled purple skin that could only belong to a corpse.

&.

They dig well into the night.

Or, well, the technicians dig while Stiles and Derek zip back and forth between the CBI detachment and the crime scene. Every time they come back, more bodies have been unearthed. 

The commanding officer comes back with them on their second return trip and throws up just beyond the tree line. 

Stiles doesn’t know whether to roll his eyes or pat the poor guy on the back. 

The technicians switch off just after midnight, many of them sporting bleeding hands underneath their thick gloves. Even without the floodlights stationed around the perimeter of the dig site, there’s plenty of light to dig by; the moon is high in the sky, only a few days away from being full. Under any other circumstances, it would be a beautiful night.

They head back to the motel around two. Stiles has to borrow a charger from the front desk, and by the time his phone has enough juice to turn back on, he’s almost dozed off, still in his shirt and tie. 

He has a few texts from Scott, asking if he should expect Stiles for dinner, the last of which was sent a few hours before. He rapidly texts back a paragraph, explaining the situation and telling Scott that he’ll let him know whenever he’s back in town. On his second read-through of it, he thinks that it might be easier to apologize through a phone call instead of a text.

Scott’s phone rings three times before Stiles realizes what time it is and hangs up. 

He also has a voicemail from Isaac and absently, he slides his hand just under the waistline of his trouser. He could probably get away with jerking off in the time it takes Derek to get out of the shower. He’s gotten pretty good at being quick and quiet about it. 

(Sometimes, quickly jerking off in the bathroom at work is all the stress relief he needs to think clearly again.)

However, as soon as the message starts playing, he realizes that it isn’t going to be that kind of message. 

_“Stiles, please say you’re going to be back in town soon. I was wrong, the message I left you yesterday. There are two more people missing, a guy and a girl, and honestly, I’m kind of freaking out. It feels like there’s someone watching me. Probably just the paranoia, right? I’ve been hanging around you too long. Anyways, please, call me when you get this.”_

This time, when Stiles presses the _call_ button, he doesn’t hang up. Thankfully, Isaac answers after only two rings. 

“Dude, where have you been?” 

“Don’t _dude_ me,” Stiles automatically responds. “The people who are missing. Is there any chance that they’re just out on jobs? Staying with family for a few days?” 

“Maybe,” Isaac sighs, not very convincingly. “I don’t really know them that well. I think the guy’s onlt part time, like me. But the girl, Heather, she’s always around. She acts like a mom to some of the kids, and they said they haven’t seen her in nearly five days.” 

Alarm bells start going off in Stiles’ head, but he forces himself to tamp down the urge to go steal Derek’s keys, especially since the bathroom door creaks open just as the thought appears in his head. This time, thankfully, Derek is already dressed, in sweatpants and a loose shirt, and he looks over at Stiles with an eyebrow that is obviously meant to mean _am I interrupting anything_? Stiles shakes his head rapidly and waves Derek over. 

“Do you have a name for the guy?” he asks Isaac.

“No. I could probably get one, if I went back out.”

“That’s not happening,” Stiles says. “We’ll come back tomorrow and investigate. Do you still feel like someone’s watching you?”

“Kind of. I might just need some weed though-“

“You need to get dressed and leave through the back entrance, alright? The one by the dumpsters. Do you have enough money on you for a cab?”

“Yeah, I-“

“Good. Don't worry, I'll reimburse you. Take it to the address I’m gonna text you, it’s my apartment building. When you get there, there’s a panel listing the apartments. Call mine, it’ll dial my number and I can let you in. There’s an extra key buried in the half-dead potted plant at the end of the hallway. Got all that?” 

“Got it.” 

“Good. Get going and call me if anything goes wrong, alright? I think there’s some weed on my kitchen table, if you still want some when you get there.” Stiles hangs up and immediately texts Isaac the address of his apartment building. As soon as he’s done, he flops back against the pillows and shoves his hands into his eyes. Only ten minutes ago, he was absolutely exhausted; now he feels completely wired. 

“You seriously keep weed in your apartment?” Derek asks from where he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. 

“Really? _That’s_ what you took out of that conversation?” Stiles retorts wearily. “That was my informant. Two more people have gone missing and he thinks he’s being watched. I don’t want him being body number… number… fuck, I don’t even know.” 

“Number fifteen. At least, that's what it was when we left Kincaid's."

“Fuck,” Stiles groans, yanking at his tie. Derek doesn’t respond, but he _does_ turn on the television and flip it to a channel showing infomercials. 

Stiles doesn’t know if it’s a deliberate choice, but he appreciates it nonetheless. 

He adds his shirt and tie to the pile of clothes to be trashed and sits cross-legged on the bed, clutching his phone tightly in his hand. Every minute that goes by without a call from Isaac makes him more and more nervous, until he’s certain he’s going to throw up. Finally, just as he’s ready to run for the bathroom, his phone rings. 

“Made it,” Isaac says, voice slightly crackly due to the intercom’s crappy speaker. 

“Good. Get some sleep, alright? Bed or couch, up to you.” 

“Always wanted to know what your bed looked like,” Isaac says with a laugh. “I’m gonna take you up on that weed too.” 

“You do whatever you want,” Stiles replies, before pressing the button to let Isaac into the building. He hangs up and sags back against the mattress, feeling like a tripwire that’s finally been sprung.

“He made it,” he says to Derek, who is propped against his headboard, skimming through one of their files. 

“Good,” Derek replies and, amazingly, he actually sounds like he means it. “We should get some sleep. Early morning tomorrow.” 

“It’s an early morning every day,” Stiles grumbles, wriggling under the blankets. “I can’t remember the last time I slept past eight. High school, maybe.” He flicks off the light between their beds and punches the pillow into a shape that vaguely resembles the one on his couch back home. Derek sets aside the file before stretching out, not even bothering to get underneath the covers. 

Stiles has seen the infomercial playing on TV before, but he still watches it, feeling his eyelids get heavier and heavier as the soothing repetition of images and marketing gibberish continues. When Derek clears his throat for the first time, he ignores it, but when it happens again, he glances over. 

“I should apologize for what I said yesterday,” he begins. “About being a piss poor detective. You’re not.” 

“I know,” Stiles says simply. “But it isn’t the first time someone’s called me that. Probably won’t be the last either.” With that, he rolls back over to face the window.

More time passes. Stiles tosses and turns, and his eyes get so heavy that he can no longer hold them open, but he can’t tip over the edge into sleep. It’s annoying, but he’s so accustomed to it that just having his eyes closed feels like a relief. The next time Derek clears his throat, he doesn’t bother to open them or roll over. 

“Derek, what do you _want_?” 

“Get over here.” 

_That’s_ enough to make Stiles move.

“What?” he mumbles, forcing his eyes open and rolling back over. 

“I said, get over here,” Derek repeats. “Your tossing and turning is keeping me awake. Sometimes, sleeping beside someone else can help.” Stiles’ jaw opens and closes a few times as his mind races, trying to figure out if this is actually happening or if it’s something brought to life by his sleep deprived imagination. After all, just over a day ago, Derek pushed him against a wall and threatened to end his career. Now, he’s telling Stiles to sleep in his bed. 

What the _fuck?_

Still, Stiles has to admit that Derek does have a point. He’s read dozens upon dozens of studies about sleep, tried out all sorts of tips and tricks, from special teas to breathing exercises, and the only thing that's ever shown any sign of success was passing out beside one of his one night stands or Isaac, too fucked out to even remember his own name. 

Sadly, sex doesn’t seem to be on the menu tonight and, even if it was, Stiles isn’t sure if he could get it up long enough to perform, but he’s still willing to give Derek’s idea a shot. 

Kicking the blankets aside, he stumbles across the short gap between their beds and waits until Derek moves over before he slides under the covers, settling into the warm spot previously occupied by Derek’s body. He can smell aftershave on the pillow that he slams his face into, and he inhales deeply.

“I’m willing to give this a shot,” he mumbles. “Just because I want some fucking sleep. But I don’t cuddle. And don’t feel me up either,” he adds as an afterthought.

“Shut up,” Derek replies. The bed is big enough that they aren’t touching in any spots, but Stiles can still feel the sheer heat rolling off Derek. The guy burns like a damn furnace. 

The infomercial changes from one for cheap junk jewelry to one for an even junkier kitchen device. Somewhere along the way, Stiles lets his legs stretch out and ends up bumping one of his feet against Derek’s ankle. Derek's skin is so warm that he can’t be bothered to move and after a few moments, he carefully wiggles his toes underneath the weight of Derek’s leg, all the while waiting for Derek to freak out or push him off at the bed. At the very least, he expects Derek to shift slightly, just enough to discourage the contact. 

Stiles would take the hint. Really. 

Instead, Derek doesn’t move, and Stiles falls asleep surrounded by warm heat and inane nonsense coming from the television.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first update of 2018! welcome back everyone!
> 
> this is definitely a case-heavy chapter! if you notice any particularly glaring errors, let me know, as today has been a very bad day!

Stiles wakes from the best sleep he’s had in months to the soft murmur of Derek’s voice.

He shoves the blankets off and sits up, dragging one hand through his mussed up hair. The bed is empty beside him, and Derek is sitting at the small table underneath the window, fully dressed, with a still steaming cup of coffee sitting in front of him, talking on his phone. 

“Yes, sir. Yes. We’re going back there today. The people down here can handle the bodies, we’ll stay in constant contact. Yes, things are going fine. Stiles is fine. He’s still asleep. I’ll let him know you called. You too, sir.” He hangs up and glances over at Stiles. 

“I assumed you didn’t want to speak to your father this early,” he says, waving a second cup of coffee in Stiles’ direction. 

“You know what they say about assuming,” Stiles mumbles, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. “But you’re right, though. Thanks.” His duffel bag is sitting on the floor between the beds, and he rummages until he finds a pair of mostly clean trousers. Once he’s pulled them on, he stumbles across the room, takes the coffee from Derek, and collapses into the extremely uncomfortable chair opposite him. 

“How’d you sleep?” 

“Fine,” Stiles shrugs, sipping his coffee and peering out the window at the pitted parking lot. “I was exhausted. No dreams.” 

“That’s a lie.” Stiles whips his head back around to look at Derek, who is looking down at his phone. 

“What?”

“I said, that’s a lie. Every time I woke up, you were whimpering. You kicked me a few times too. Kicked me _hard_.”

“Bullshit,” Stiles snaps. Silently, Derek extends his leg and tugs the right leg of his trousers up to his knee. Scattered down his calf are a few bruises, black and purple around the edges. Stiles just stares at them for a few moments, tries to resist reaching out and jabbing a finger into them. 

Eventually, he grabs his coffee and takes it and his duffel bag to the washroom. After he's pulled the door closed, he leans back against the sink and chugs his coffee until his throat aches.

He doesn’t know what the fuck is going on. He _did_ sleep better last night, no doubt about it, but he’s really starting to regret going along with Derek’s suggestion. 

He dresses quickly, and when he exits the bathroom, Derek is packed and sitting on the edge of his bed. His phone is pressed to his ear again, but his voice has changed. It’s no longer the official detective one Stiles has come to expect; it’s much softer, hushed almost.

“I don’t know when I’ll be home, Cora. I’m sorry, this case is…” He trails off and sighs, running one hand down his face. His stubble rasps against his palm. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Besides, I thought you liked house sitting for me.” This time, after a momentary pause, Derek actually laughs and _smiles_. For some reason, it makes acid crawl up Stiles’ throat, and he yanks out his own phone and taps aimlessly at the screen until Derek hangs up. 

“Sorry. My sister,” he replies. “We need to stop by the detachment first. They’ve got some stuff for us to take back to Beacon Hills.” 

“Alright,” Stiles says, grabbing his bag. “You can drive.” 

“I was planning on it.” 

&. 

After they stop by the detachment and load up the back of Derek’s Camaro with boxes upon boxes containing copies of files regarding what was found at Kincaid’s cabin, they continue on to the morgue. Just walking into the place gives Stiles the creeps; he can handle the dueling scents of death and antiseptic, but it’s the _silence_ that gets him. Each of his footsteps seem to echo forever, and every whisper is loud as a gunshot. 

“They should play some music in here or something,” he mutters, more to himself than anything. Amazingly, Derek nods instead of snapping at him about being inappropriate. 

“Never liked these places,” he says in a hushed tone, pushing at the swinging door that leads into the main examination room. “I always feel like an intruder.” 

Stiles has never thought of it exactly like that, but in one simple sentence, Derek just summed up his feelings on the matter. 

The middle of the room is taken up by three examination tables, each of which contains one of the corpses found at Kincaid's. They’re in varying stages of decay; the one closest to them is little more than bones held together by a few pieces of sinew while the furthest looks like it’s barely progressed past rigor mortis. 

“The cold ground helped preserve them,” the coroner says, pulling a fresh pair of gloves up over his wrists. “Makes it difficult to determine how long some of them have been dead for.” 

“What about cause of death?” Derek asks.

“Blood loss, primarily, from multiple wounds. This one, here,” the coroner continues, coming around to stand by the skeletal remains. He points out a number of nicks on the ribs, scratches that definitely aren’t natural in origin. “These grooves were caused by something similar to the claws found at the suspect’s house.” 

“I don’t imagine there’s a lot of demand for something like that,” Stiles says. “If we find the guy who made them, we should be able to figure out who bought them.”

“Possibly. We’ve been able to pry some microscopic pieces out of some of the wounds. We’ve sent them off to the lab, and they should be able to tell us what the material is. That might help narrow your search down.” 

“I fucking hope so,” Stiles mutters, before giving the coroner a thanks and slipping out of the room. There’s a small stack of files waiting for them at the front desk, each containing numerous photos of the bodies and descriptions of the wounds. 

Stiles flicks open the first one and almost immediately closes it again, as soon as he reads what the examiner has written under _Estimated Age._

At least one of the victims was no older than thirteen when they were ripped to shreds.

&. 

The drive back to Beacon Hills is almost entirely silent. 

Once they're back at the detachment, they add their new boxes of files to the already crowded conference room. Stiles uses the last free wall to tack up the pictures of the newly confirmed victims and connect them to the others with red strings of yarn. Then he perches himself on top of a stack of boxes and stares at the walls, eyes flicking from image to image. 

By the time he snaps out of it, the sky is dark, Derek is gone, and Parrish is gently shaking his shoulder. 

“Stiles. Are you alright?” 

“I’m fine,” Stiles says, nearly falling off the boxes as he whips around. He’s immediately hit with a wall of sensation; hunger pains in his stomach, a throbbing headache (likely from lack of caffeine), the scent of Parrish’s aftershave. “What time is it?”

“Just after seven. Detective Hale said he was going to investigate a lead, but he wasn’t specific. I think he tried to tell you.” 

“Must have missed him somehow,” Stiles mumbles, taking one last look at the photos before getting to his feet and turning his back on them. “What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing. I just wanted to make sure that you were okay. This is some pretty heavy stuff.” 

“You don’t even know the half of it,” Stiles mutters. “Guess I might as well call it a night.”

He checks his phone as he walks back to his car, which has been parked at the station for days. He has a new text from Isaac, saying that he bought some groceries for Stiles’ fridge and locked the door behind him. Stiles sends him a simple thumbs-up emoticon before calling Scott, who picks up on the first ring. 

“Hey buddy! Are you finally back in town?” 

“Yeah, finally. What are you up to tonight? Is it too late for a drink?” 

“No, come on over! The door’s open and we’ve got leftover lasagna.” Stiles’ stomach growls alarmingly loud at the very mention of food. 

“Well, there’s no way I’m refusing an invitation like that.” 

&. 

He doesn’t bother to knock before he slips inside Scott’s house. He barely remembers to kick his shoes off before he pads into the living room. It’s darkened, lit only by the flickering light from the television. Scott is in his armchair with his arm around Lily, who is passed out with her head cushioned against his chest. 

“Hey,” he says quietly with a grin. “Grabbed you a beer.” Sure enough, there’s a still-cold beer sitting on the small table beside the room’s other armchair and, just like that, Stiles remembers precisely why he loves Scott so much. 

“Thanks. Lily have a long day?” he asks, nodding his chin at his sleeping goddaughter as he drops into the armchair.

“Yeah. We took her to the park. Then she cried for an hour because she wanted to go with Kira to visit Grandma Noshiko for tea.” 

“Cried herself right to sleep,” Stiles laughs, leaning across the gap between them and lightly brushing a wisp of Lily’s dark, fine hair away from her face. “Must be nice.” 

“How are things going with you?” Scott asks. “Still working that case?” 

“Yeah. Don’t really wanna talk about that tonight though.” Scott’s grin falters for a moment, but by the time Stiles starts to scramble for an apology, it’s back. 

Stiles still feels like he’s has been stabbed in the gut. 

“Alright, no problem. Mind if I tell you some awesome news?” He leans forward slightly, adjusting his grip on Lily, who doesn’t even stir. 

“What’s up?” 

“Kira’s _pregnant_ , Stiles.” Scott sounds as excited as a child at Christmas and really, Stiles can’t blame him. Scott dotes on Lily and Kira both; he smiles every time he talks about them, and not once has Stiles heard him complain about being a father or a husband. It’s like he’s found his purpose in life. 

Truth be told, Stiles is a little jealous, even though he doesn’t think he has it in him to take care of a child. He doesn’t mind babysitting Lily every once in a while, when Scott and Kira need some alone time, but those few hours are enough. 

(Sometimes, when he tucks Lily into bed, the glow of her nightlight settles in shadows in her face, like sprays of blood, and it’s all he can do to ignore it long enough to read her a bedtime story.)

But there’s something else beyond jealousy stirring in his stomach. He doesn’t have a name for it, but he recognizes it; it’s a thick, slimy feeling, lurking in the depths of his chest. It creeps up his throat sometimes and threatens to strangle him. It’s what bombards him with nightmares, even when he’s had a good day. 

“Stiles? You alright?” 

Stiles shakes his head and plasters on his best fake smile.

“Sorry man, I’m just really tired. But that’s awesome! I’m fucking stoked for the two of you. You told Lily yet?” 

“Not yet," Scott replies softly. "We're going to wait a little while longer, just in case something bad happens.” 

“Well,” Stiles says, leaning across the gap and holding out his can to clink against Scott’s, “here’s hoping that in a few months, she’ll have a brother or sister.” After Scott meets him in the middle, Stiles chugs back half of his beer in one fell swoop. 

It doesn’t block out the taste of the thick feeling in his throat. At all. 

&. 

Stiles drinks another beer before he decides to call it a night. Scott offers to drive him home, but Lily is still passed out on his chest so he waves it off. 

“I’ll be fine. I’ll take it slow.” 

It takes fifteen minutes longer than normal, but he makes it back to the apartment in one piece. He checks the potted plant at the end of his hallway on the way up and sure enough, Isaac has put his spare key back, buried underneath a few inches of crumbling earth that hasn’t been watered in months. He slips into his apartment, drops his stuff on the already crowded table, and turns towards the kitchen. 

Isaac wasn’t kidding about the groceries. There’s a new loaf of bread sitting on the counter, along with a few cans of soup. When Stiles pulls the fridge open, all his spoiled food is gone, replaced by a carton of milk and a six-pack of beer, glistening and amber in glass bottles. 

Stiles grabs one of the bottles and makes a mental note to give Isaac a Christmas bonus this year. 

The living room still looks like a tornado went through it, but a smaller scale tornado; an F-3, as compared to an F-5. Some of his stacks of books have been straightened slightly, and the ones formerly on top of the television have been removed and stacked neatly on the floor. There’s a crime novel laying open on the couch, and when Stiles collapses back against the cushions, the lingering smell of Isaac’s cheap cologne wafts into his nose. 

There’s a marathon of old horror movies playing on television, and since the infomercials won’t be starting for another few hours, Stiles leaves it on and yanks the crime novel out from underneath him. He gets six pages into it before he realizes that he’s already read it and tosses it across the room. It lands right on top of another stack, which wobbles without actually falling over, and Stiles lets out a half-hearted cheer before popping the cap off his beer. 

The black and white vampire movie quickly transitions into an old werewolf flick. The first sound that plays over the opening credits is a loud, piercing howl that has Stiles scrambling to find the remote so he can turn the volume down. By the time he yanks it out from underneath the couch, the actual credits have begun to appear. Each is accompanied by a tearing sound, as the words are ripped onto the screen by glinting claws. It’s ridiculously hokey, and he snorts as he takes another sip from his beer. 

And then he stops, slowly sets the beer down on the coffee table and sits up, leaning forward to stare at the television screen. 

Something _clicks_. 

“No fucking way,” he says. The credits fade away with another piercing howl and a shadowy glimpse at a werewolf creeping through the night, light glinting off its claws and long fangs. 

Glinting. Like fucking metal. 

Stiles leaps to his feet, swipes his keys off the table and jams his feet into his boots, wriggling them on properly as he runs down the hallway. He slams his palm into the button to summon the elevator, but after five seconds of waiting, he curses under his breath and dashes towards the stairwell. By the time he slams out into the parking lot, his ankle is twinging, and there’s likely a bruise on his ribs from crashing into the wall more than once, but he shoves the pain into the back of his mind. 

Thankfully, the roads are mostly abandoned at this time of night. He flies over the speed limit, just barely slows down at stop signs, runs a few amber lights that were actually reds. By the time he gets to the office, he barely feels the effects of the beer he’s consumed. Parrish is still at his desk, head resting on his hand, filling out paperwork and sipping a cup of coffee that looks long cold. 

“Parrish, I need you to do me a favour,” Stiles says as soon as he breezes by Parrish's cubicle. 

“What’s up?” 

“I need you to bring up a map detailing the phases of the moon for the last six months, and I need another from four years ago. Meet me in the conference room.” 

“Be right there!” 

Stiles digs out every single file that they have on the victims from their various boxes, both the ones from Beacon Hills and the ones from Derek's investigation. He sweeps everything else off the table, grabs a marker and, after a moment of thinking about whether or not he should go find a whiteboard, decides to just write on the tabletop. By the time Parrish comes in, arms full of printed pages, Stiles has filled the table’s surface with the victim’s names, the date that their body was found and the coroner’s estimate of how many days they had been dead before they were found. 

“Got everything,” Parrish says. “What do you need me to do?” 

“I’m going to read you some dates,” Stiles says. “I need you to tell me how many of those dates coincide with the full moon and if not, how close they are. Alright?” Parrish nods and Stiles reads off the first date. 

“Two days after the full moon,” Parrish responds after a moment. Stiles quickly scrawls a circle beside the first date and scribbles the number two in the middle of it before reading the next date on the list. 

It takes them awhile, but by the time Parrish reads out the last date, every name on the table has a moon drawn next to it. Not one of them contains a number any higher than three. 

That’s not a coincidence,” Parrish says, shuffling the papers back into a stack. 

“No, it certainly is not,” Stiles mutters, fumbling his phone from his pocket. His fingers are so slick with sweat that he has to wipe them on his pants before he can successfully unlock the touchscreen. From there, he calls Derek. 

“C’mon, fucking pick up,” he snaps, just in time to hear a click. Speak of the fucking devil. 

“Stiles, do you have any idea what time it is?” Derek groans, voice gravelly in a way that suggests he was yanked out of sleep. “This better be good.” 

“I think that I’ve figured something out,” Stiles says. “Get your ass down here, _now_. I’ll put the coffee on.” He hangs up and idly wipes his hands on his pants again. 

“Stiles,” Parrish says softly. When Stiles whips his head around, Parrish is looking down at the sheets of paper in his hands, and his face is ashen. 

“What?”

“The next full moon,” Parrish continues, holding up a sheet of paper. He’s circled one date with a marker, and when Stiles cranes forward, he knows what Parrish is going to say before the words leave his mouth. “The next full moon is tomorrow night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot emphasize this enough: don't drink and drive!!
> 
> stay tuned for next time, which features a good dosage of belligerent sexual tension!


	9. Chapter 9

By the time Derek walks into the conference room, hair still mussed with sleep, Stiles is on his second sludgy cup of coffee. 

“This better be good,” he mutters. If it were any other time, Stiles would laugh at just how damn _pissed_ he looks but, as is, he just scrambles to his feet, sloshing coffee all over his hand. 

“It is, trust me. I was watching this movie tonight, some stupid werewolf thing from like the forties, and then it hit me-“

“You’re kidding me,” Derek interrupts, crossing his arms over his chest and raising one thick eyebrow. “How much have you drank tonight?”

“Listen to me!” Stiles yells. The words echo around the conference room, and Derek actually takes a step back. Stiles forces himself to take a deep breath before he speaks again; his hands are shaking so badly that he sloshes coffee down his front when he raises the mug to take a sip. “Look, I _know_ that it sounds stupid, but just hear me out. Kincaid had fangs and claws, right? Like a werewolf.” He waves to the conference table, which is now even more marked up with lines and annotations. “Every murder that we can pin down to a date, both in your files and mine, they were all killed right around the time of the full moon. No later than three days after. _All_ of them.” 

“The videos,” Derek says, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over a nearby box. “They were all bright. Like they were filmed under a full moon… it would make sense.” 

Stiles has to restrain himself from yelling in triumph. He hadn’t even thought about the videos but, just like that, another piece of the puzzle clicks into place. 

“I haven’t figured out what the burns mean yet,” he says, quickly grabbing a marker and scrawling a crooked triad spiral onto the nearest empty part of the table’s heavily marked-up surface. “This has to mean _something_ , but there was nothing in our research connecting it to the moon or anything like that.” Derek’s jaw twitches, and he drops to his knees and starts rummaging through nearby boxes, roughly tossing the lids to the side. 

“We interviewed a professor of Welsh mythology,” he says, talking fast as he searches. “He gave us a few possible explanations, but none of them panned out, so we ended up disregarding them.” After a few moments, he yanks a folder out and tears it open. “Here.” Stiles slides to the floor beside him and leans over to look at the papers inside the folder. He can feel Derek’s rushed breath against the side of his neck. “The professor said that each individual spiral stood for something different, and that different groups had different meanings for the whole symbol. For some, it signified family members, for others the different stages of time or different goddesses.” 

“Werewolves,” Stiles murmurs underneath his breath, scanning the page quickly. “What could it mean for werewolves?” 

“Wolves and dogs have similar group dynamics and hierarchies. Alphas-“

“Betas and omegas,” Stiles finishes, sagging back against the nearest stack of boxes. “Fuck.” 

“What if this is some kind of cult?”

If Stiles was a little less worn down, he would tell Derek _I fucking told you so._

“A cult based around werewolves. Trying to recruit street kids to what, be part of their packs?” 

“I guess so. If the street kids were going in as omegas, the videos would make sense. Omegas are the lowest of the low. They get scraps, they’re the first to starve if it’s a bad winter. They’d willingly kill just for a chance of moving up the ladder.” 

“So every fight they win, they get one step closer to becoming betas. But what about Kincaid’s tattoo?”

“What if the tattoo is some kind of a reward? A sign that they’ve become a true member of the pack. Maybe the burns are a punishment for not being strong enough to earn a tattoo,” Derek muses, slumping beside Stiles and exhaling loudly. “Still seems a bit far-fetched though.” 

“Far-fetched or not, it’s the best theory we have right now,” Stiles responds. “It connects all the dots, and we’ll probably have more evidence for it this week.” 

“What are you talking about?” Derek asks, turning his head to face Stiles. This close, underneath the harsh florescent lights, the purple bags under his hazel eyes are shockingly prominent. 

“The full moon’s this week. Tomorrow, actually. Which means that there’s likely going to be another body.” 

“Maybe that’s what we need.” The words are so quiet that Stiles thinks he’s imagined them at first, thinks that they're just echoed whispers from the deep recesses of his own mind. But when he raises his eyes from Derek’s mouth (he’s not sure how he ended up gazing there, and he’s also not sure why Derek didn’t tell him to stop), Derek looks distracted. His fingers are clasped in his lap, so tight that Stiles expects the bones of his knuckles to pop through his skin. “We’ll need to bump up patrols. Get the sheriff’s department involved. They seem to like dumping the bodies near the forest. Maybe we can catch them in the act.” 

“Derek, the Preserve is _huge_ ,” Stiles says. He spent hours in it as a child with Scott, exploring the hiking trails and making paths of their own, yet they only ever explored a mere sliver of the place. “There are probably bodies in there that we’ll never find."

“We have to do _something_ ,” Derek snaps, but there’s no bite to the words, only weariness. Stiles has to blink a few times, just to make sure he’s still looking at the same Derek, the one that’s been kicking him in the ass since day one, the same guy who cradled his neck in bone breaking fingers and promised to ruin his career. 

Sure enough, it’s the same guy, but he looks like he’s been through the meat grinder and back. 

“You’re right. Parrish used to be a sheriff’s deputy. I’m sure he’ll be willing to help. I can ask now, if you want.” He gets to his feet and is already at the door leading into the bullpen before he remembers that Parrish left at least an hour ago, maybe even two. He isn’t really sure. 

“Tomorrow,” Derek says, standing up and grabbing his jacket. “Or in a few hours at least. There’s nothing else we can do right now except get some sleep.” 

“There’s has to be _something_ ,” Stiles says, whipping back around to stare at the conference room. Between the strings of yarn falling off the wall, the teetering boxes of files and the table with all its scrawled notes, the place is a fucking _mess_. “What about a map? Maybe if we connect all the dump sites together, we’ll find something, like another symbol.” 

“Stiles, those people aren’t going to come back to life,” Derek says. “They’re staying dead until the morning. You need some sleep.” 

“I’m fine,” Stiles mutters dismissively. “You go. I’m gonna have some more coffee.” 

“No, you’re not.” Derek’s hand lands heavily on Stiles’ shoulder, and Stiles immediately shakes it off and steps away. 

“Why are you so invested in how much sleep I get? I said I’m fine.” 

“And _I_ said that you’re not,” Derek retorts. “You look sick, Stiles. You’re paler than some of the corpses we’ve found. And I smelled the alcohol on your breath as soon as I walked in. You need to sober up.” 

“It’s been hours since I had anything. Besides, it was just a few beers, and it helped me come up with this theory. Lighten up.” 

“I don’t care how sober you think you are." Derek closes the space between them and curls his fingers tightly around the collar of Stiles’ shirt. “I don’t care that you may have just come up with the theory that might blow this case open. You are _not_ driving back to your flea-infested apartment so you can drink even more. You are sleeping on my couch. Understand?” 

“And what if I just step right past you and go back to my _flea-infested_ apartment?” Stiles spits back into Derek’s face. “Huh? What the fuck are you going to do about it?” Derek’s lips tug into a smirk edged with cruelty, and Stiles has to stop himself from smirking back. 

Now _here’s_ the Derek he wants to see, not the soft around the edges detective with the tired eyes and the quiet voice. 

“I’ll make sure that there’s an investigation opened into your substance abuse problems,” Derek says, fingers tightening on Stiles’ collar. “Maybe it’ll be an anonymous tip, maybe not. Maybe you’ll be able to use your father to get out of it. But your reputation will be so bad that no self-respecting detective will ever agree to work alongside you again.” Derek’s so close that Stiles can count the darker flecks dotting his eyes, and his knuckles are digging into Stiles’ chest, right above his heart. 

The threat should make him furious, should make him want to slam his fist into Derek’s face over and over again. 

Instead, it kind of makes him want to drop to his knees. 

“You know,” he says, pitching his voice lower, “if you really want me to come home with you, you could just ask.” He leans forward and tucks his hands between Derek’s jacket and shirt, closes them around the line of his hip. Even through the shirt, Derek’s skin is so hot that it makes Stiles’ head swim. 

Derek’s cruel smirk doesn’t waver. 

“It’d really be that easy?” he asks, taking a step forward and shoving Stiles back against the table. He resolutely doesn’t wince, even though he’s sure that he’s going to have a bruise at the base of his spine. “All I have to do is ask?” 

“Just say the word.” Stiles takes a deep breath before he goes even further and slips his fingers under the hem of Derek’s shirt to brush against where his skin is pulled taut over his hipbone. Derek’s hands drop away from his collar in favor of smoothing down Stiles’ chest and stopping right above the line of his pants. Stiles raises his hips slightly, just enough for Derek to hopefully get the hint. 

In the same moment that Derek’s hands drop away from Stiles’ stomach, his smirk drops from his face. 

“Your _fuck me_ shtick won’t work on me,” he hisses. “Now, come on. I want to be back here no later than nine.” With that, he turns on his heel and strides out the door. 

Even after his footsteps have faded away, Stiles remains frozen, unable to stop staring at the space where Derek was only moments before. His stomach is still roiling with tension, and he swears that there’s a phantom throb in his knees from the blowjob that could have happened. 

Eventually, he manages to snap out of it, and he reaches into his pockets for his keys, because he’ll be _fucked_ if he’s actually going back to Derek’s after what just happened. His fingertips brush against his phone, but they don’t skim over cool, jagged metal, no matter how many times he shoves his hands into his pockets. After another second, it clicks in his mind, and he presses his teeth into his bottom lip until blood wells up. 

That fucking _asshole_. 

Finally convincing himself to move, he crosses the room, turns off the light and exits into the quiet bullpen. When he walks out into the parking lot, Derek is leaning against the hood of his Camaro, arms crossed over his chest, staring down at his watch. 

“I was starting to think about leaving you behind,” he says casually, sliding off the hood and opening the driver door without even looking at Stiles. 

“You stole my fucking keys,” Stiles fumes, reluctantly sliding in as well. 

“Surprised it took you so long to notice.” 

“What is your _issue_? You’re not getting paid to care about me, you know that, right? Unless my dad is giving you a bonus for making sure I don’t get into trouble. He’s not doing that, is he?”

“No, Stiles, your father is not paying me to watch over you,” Derek says dryly, throwing the Camaro into reverse. “I’m not a babysitter.” 

“Could have fooled me.” 

It’s the last thing either of them say for the rest of the drive; now that the adrenaline of connecting the lines together (and fighting with Derek) has started to dissipate, Stiles feels like he’s been pummeled. There’s a headache pounding at his temples, his tongue feels like sandpaper, and the longer they drive, the more the dryness extends towards the back of his throat. 

By the time they pull up in front of Derek’s building, he’s so tired that he has to drag himself from the car and will his feet to keep moving as he shuffles after Derek. He wonders what would happen if his legs did give out, if he was just too tired to keep walking. He wonders if Derek would pick him up, sling him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carry him up to his apartment.

Part of Stiles is bizarrely amused by the thought. The other part… 

Well, he doesn’t want to think about that part. 

They enter through a back door that opens onto a long hallway, devoid of any furnishings. It’s simply cold cinder-block walls, crumbling in a few spots, and the whole place smells vaguely of dust. The hallway leads into a large lobby furnished with a few couches and threadbare rugs. There’s a large desk against one wall in front of a door leading into what Stiles suspects is a security office. There’s no one sitting at the desk, but he can hear a television or radio playing inside the office. Derek doesn’t pay the noise any mind; he simply crosses the room to the large freight elevator taking up almost an entire wall. 

“Didn’t you say that you own this place?” Stiles asks as Derek pulls back the gate that extends across the elevator. 

“Yeah. Used to belong to my parents.” 

“They give it to you as a birthday present or something?” Stiles steps past the gate and leans against the wall of the elevator, hoping that his exhaustion isn’t blatantly obvious. Derek doesn’t answer for a moment; he slams his hand into the button for the top floor of the building, and the already cracked plastic casing creaks under his hand. Finally, he clears his throat, but he doesn’t turn around. He stays facing the front of the elevator, which is slowly rising with a series of loud, vaguely alarming noises. 

“In their will, actually.” His voice is soft, and the line of his shoulders is too straight, like he’s overcompensating and Stiles momentarily has the urge to step forward, lay his hand on Derek’s shoulder, and tell him that he understands, sort of, tell him that his mother died, so long ago that Stiles can barely remember the sound of her voice anymore, even though she read him to sleep for the first ten years of his life. From there, maybe he could tell Derek about his dad’s drinking, explain that it’s one of the sole reasons Stiles has never gotten in trouble for his bad habits. His dad can’t say shit about him, not so long as he continues to sneak whiskey from the flask he keeps in the top drawer of his desk.

But he doesn’t say a word.

He’s just too damn tired. 

Finally, the elevator creaks to a stop, and Derek throws the door open and steps outside onto a landing with a single massive door that’s twice Stiles’ height. It smells dusty up here too, like no one has been around for months, maybe even years, but the security system set into the wall beside the door looks new, numbers glowing bright red in the dim space. Derek blocks the view with his body as he types the password in, and the system beeps cheerily as it disarms. The door groans loudly as Derek hauls it open just far enough for them to slide inside. 

The loft’s main room is huge. The entire back wall is composed of panes of glass, bringing in enough glow from the nearly full moon that Stiles can easily make out the layout of the space. There’s a kitchen area on the left and a black, cavernous opening into another room on the right. In the back corner, a set of black metal stairs spirals up to a second floor. The middle of the room seems like it’s supposed be a combined living room and bedroom, but there’s so little furniture that it doesn’t exactly give off a cozy vibe. The bed is pushed underneath the window, and there’s a couch a few feet away facing a surprisingly large television. The floor is bare concrete, and the ceiling is held up by pillars that look like they might come crashing down at any minute. It’s warm enough, but there’s still a lingering dampness that makes Stiles reluctant to kick off his shoes and pad across the floor in only his socks. 

Derek doesn’t bother with a light. He simply strides over to the bed and sits down on the edge, pulling off his boots and belt. 

“There’s another bedroom upstairs,” he says. “Or there’s always the couch.” Stiles is pretty sure that he couldn’t make it up the stairs even if he wanted to, so he simply shrugs and collapses onto the couch. It’s certainly nothing fancy to look at, but it feels expensive and plush against his back. 

“This will do,” he mutters grudgingly, rolling onto his side and shoving his arms underneath his head. He’s just barely extended his legs when a pillow hits him in the head. It’s quickly followed by a quilt, which lands heavily on his chest. 

“Better?” Derek asks. Stiles just mumbles in agreement, punches the pillow into a shape that approximates his own, and tugs the quilt up to his chin. After only a few seconds, it becomes clear that Derek’s couch is eons more comfortable than his own, where’s he’s always finding books and cutlery jammed between the cushions. 

Within minutes, the room is eerily silent. Stiles can’t hear anything except the sound of his own breathing, not even Derek shifting or any distant traffic. It’s unsettling, but he’s so tired that he assumes that if he simply waits for a few minutes, maybe half an hour, he’ll just drift off. 

But the minutes keep ticking by, and the only thing that happens is that the sound of his own heartbeat becomes increasingly deafening. Finally, he sits up. 

“Where the hell is your remote?” 

“My what?” 

“Your remote.” Stiles glances over at Derek’s bed and sees that his jeans are lying in a clump on the floor. His shoulders are bare under the line of his blankets, which means…

Oh. That knowledge isn't going to help him sleep either. 

“Your remote. For the TV,” Stiles repeats. “I can’t sleep. It’s too quiet.” 

“Underneath the couch, I think,” Derek finally answers, just as Stiles is starting to worry that he passed out. “Should be, at least.” Stiles reaches down and sure enough, the remote is exactly where Derek said. He flicks it on and the History Channel comes on, showing some grainy war documentary. 

“Why am I not surprised?” he mutters, turning the volume down before flopping back onto his side. He feels more at ease almost immediately. 

He’s mere inches away from sleep when Derek speaks again. 

“You’re welcome to sleep over here too, if it’ll help,” he says. “It’s a pretty big bed.” Images flash through Stiles’ mind, things he really shouldn’t think about, things he shouldn’t even _want_ to think about. He seriously entertains the offer for a few moments, thinks about the feeling of Derek’s warm skin against his toes, the feeling of Derek’s breath on the nape of his neck. 

“Maybe if you put your pants back on,” he finally mumbles. 

He falls asleep before Derek answers.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next few chapters after this one are some of my favorites, but I suspect some of y'all are really going to like this one in particular!

When Stiles wakes up, he’s greeted by the duelling smells of coffee and bacon. It’s absolutely heavenly, especially considering how much his head is pounding, but when he flutters his eyes open, he half-expects to have to chide Isaac for cooking for him again, which goes _way_ beyond the terms of their relationship. 

Before he can speak, his eyes lock onto the high concrete ceiling of Derek’s loft, and everything comes flashing back. 

He sits up and twists around. Derek is standing in the kitchen with his back turned, wearing a dark blue shirt and a pair of jeans that cling to his ass. Stiles shakes his head a few times, just in case he’s hallucinating, but when he looks back, Derek is still there, shirt stretched tight across his broad shoulders and tapered waist, poking at a pan full of spitting bacon. It reminds Stiles so much of what he used to wake up to when he lived with Scott during college; whenever he passed out after a night of drinking, Scott always roused him with a plate of greasy bacon and syrup drenched pancakes. 

It’d been great coming from Scott, the guy that Stiles considers his platonic soulmate, but coming from Derek…

Well, it kind of makes Stiles want to bolt for the fucking door. 

Sadly, that isn’t a possibility; he has no idea where Derek hid his keys and they’re too far from work for him to walk, so instead, he kicks the blankets away and slowly gets to his feet, rolling the kinks out of his neck. There’s warm sunlight coming through the window, but it’s still tinged with gray, so it can’t be any later than seven o’clock. 

“Where’s your bathroom?” he asks, running one hand through his hair. Derek points behind himself, at the side of the room marked by the cavernous opening. Stiles stumbles through the opening and eventually finds the bathroom after coming across yet another bedroom and a laundry room. 

For someone who is the very definition of a fucking loner, Derek sure does have a lot of bedrooms. 

When he goes back into the main room, Derek is sliding a plate across the kitchen island. Stiles grabs it just before it topples over the edge and immediately starts digging in. There’s eggs and toast in addition to the bacon, and he can’t shovel it into his mouth fast enough. 

“When was the last time you ate something that _didn’t_ have caffeine in it?” Derek asks, passing Stiles a mug of coffee before leaning back against the counter, balancing his plate on one palm. 

“None of your business,” Stiles replies through a mouthful of food, using a piece of toast to mop up the mess from his eggs. 

“You should eat better. You’re too skinny.” 

“Yeah, well, we can’t all be built like fucking Greek gods, can we?” he mutters. It takes him a moment to realize what he just said, and when he glances upwards, Derek is staring at him. One of his eyebrows is raised, and his teeth are pressed into the corner of his lip, which is stained with a tiny piece of egg yolk. 

Stiles kind of wants to clamber across the counter and lick it off, for reasons he doesn’t entirely understand. 

“Look,” he continues, “if you’re worried that I'm going to let someone get the drop on you, don’t. I know what I’m doing out there. I can watch your back.” Derek nods and averts his gaze back to his plate.

“You better. I called Parrish about setting up extra patrols. He said that he’ll get right on it. We’re going on a road trip.” 

“What kind of road trip? We gonna blow some of our salary on strippers?” Stiles asks, leering across the counter and wiggling his eyebrows. 

“Don’t you already do that on your days off?” Derek replies in a bored tone, not looking up from his plate. “Does your informant give you a discount?” 

“Are you _ever_ going to move past that?” Stiles snaps, letting his cutlery clang on the plate, chest filled with hot spikes of anger. He doesn’t know why Derek is so fucking obsessed with his personal life, but it’s starting to get infuriating. Sure, fucking an informant _does_ go against the CBI’s code of conduct, but Stiles never said that being a detective creates good habits. “He’s the best informant I have,” he continues. “The fact that I’m fucking him is irrelevant. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were jealous.”

“I have no reason to be jealous,” Derek says casually, like he’s announcing what he’s going to eat for lunch, before he dumps his plate in the sink. “Get dressed. You’ve got your informants, I’ve got mine, and we’re going to meet two of them today.” 

“So it’s _that_ kind of road trip,” Stiles mutters under his breath. There’s still some bacon on his plate, but his appetite has soured, so he finishes his coffee, leaves his plate on the counter and heads back over to the couch to pull on the rest of his clothes. One sniff is all it takes for him to wrinkle his nose; he doesn’t remember spilling beer on himself last night, but the smell is definitely there, along with stale coffee. 

“You ever gonna give me my keys back?” he yells towards the stairs. 

“Depends. Why?” Derek yells back. 

“If we’re going on a fucking road trip, I need some more clothes. And my duffel, just in case this turns into a circus like last time.” 

“It shouldn’t,” Derek says as he descends the stairs, now wearing boots and a khaki jacket. He reaches into the pocket of his jeans and lobs the keys at Stiles, who just barely manages to catch them between his fingers. “Let’s get going. It's a two hour drive, and I want to be back here as soon as possible.” 

“Whatever you say, _Detective_ ,” Stiles hisses, tugging his own jacket on. 

He’s not sure if he imagines it, but he thinks Derek actually winces before he continues out the door without looking back to see if Stiles is coming. 

&. 

They stop at his apartment long enough for Stiles to change into some fresh clothes and grab some snacks for the road. When he walks back out into the parking lot, Derek is staring at the building with something like mild revulsion in his eyes. 

“Don’t say a word, because your place looks like a supervillain hideout,” Stiles snaps as he slides back into the passenger seat.

Thankfully, Derek keeps his mouth shut.

They stop at the detachment just long enough for Stiles to grab his duffel from the trunk of his car; even though he has his keys back, Derek still steadfastly refuses to let him drive, and since that means Stiles won’t have to fill out the paperwork requesting reimbursement for gas money, he’s more than willing to let Derek take the wheel. 

Parrish isn’t at his cubicle, but there’s a map of the town and the surrounding area sitting on Stiles’ messy desk with the routes of the new patrols marked out in different colored pen. There are a few blind spots, but their limits are finite, and Stiles has to concede that Parrish has managed to make more happen in a few hours than he probably could in a few days. 

(Most of the guys that work for the sheriff’s department don’t like him very much. Maybe it’s because he went to high school with most of them and knows all of their dirty secrets. For some of them, Stiles _is_ their dirty little secret.

But mainly it’s jurisdictional bullshit, which Parrish cuts through like butter. It’s one of his many talents.)

“So, who exactly are these informants we’re going to see?” Stiles asks once they hit the interstate. 

“Reyes and Boyd. They’re part of a group that worship the sun. Stay out of trouble most of the time, live off the grid, but they’re close with other groups that celebrate nature. They might be able to tell us more about any groups that worship the moon, if that’s what these assholes are actually doing.”

“Told you these hills are full of cults,” Stiles says, tearing off a piece of his coffee cup and tossing it out the open window. 

“They’re not a cult. Technically,” Derek replies, but when Stiles glances over, Derek’s face is red, right up to the tip of his ears. It’s actually kind of cute, and Stiles clicks his tongue and reaches across the console, pinching one of Derek’s rough cheeks. 

“It’s okay, I won’t tell anyone that your informants are a bunch of weird hippies if you don’t tell anyone I’ve fucked most of mine.” It’s meant to sting and it works; Derek slaps Stiles’ hand away and presses his foot down on the accelerator, passing a slow-moving SUV filled with a family. 

Stiles spends the rest of the trip grinning and throwing more pieces of his cup out of the window. 

&.

The informants are apparently based in a commune near Sacramento and, for a few moments, Stiles is afraid that the whole trip is actually a sham, an excuse to haul Stiles before his dad so that he can get read the riot act. But thankfully, Derek continues past the turn-off for the detachment, and Stiles lets his breath whoosh out as he slumps back in the seat. 

“What are you so worked up about?” Derek asks. “Afraid I’m going to turn you in to your father?”

“Like to see you try,” Stiles retorts, but it doesn’t come out nearly as forcefully as he intended. He directs his gaze out the window and keeps it there, locked on the buildings that fly by, even though he can feel Derek’s gaze still burning into the side of his neck. The gaze stays there until Stiles snaps, “Get your eyes back on the fucking road. I don’t want to die today.”

They turn off the interstate fifteen minutes later. From there, it’s twenty minutes down increasingly narrow side roads, where the trees meet overhead to form a canopy. Thankfully, it’s a bright day, and the sun manage to break through and quell some of the nervous energy boiling in Stiles’ stomach. Even as the road narrows to be little more than a goat path, he still doesn’t get the same feeling that he had at Irving Walsh’s house, the feeling that he was being watched. 

The road eventually ends in a small green clearing bordered by trees in full bloom. There are a few cars parked along the edges of the clearing, mostly old junkers that look like they might fall apart at the slightest touch, and there’s a birdbath in the center that’s currently populated by a few tiny sparrows. 

“Where are they?” Stiles asks, sliding from the car and taking a deep breath of clear air. 

“They use the sun for their time,” Derek says, glancing up at the sky. “So they’ll probably be a few minutes late.” 

“Better be worth it,” Stiles says, wandering over to the nearest car to poke around. He has a sudden image of popping open a trunk and finding a desiccated corpse staring back at him with hollow eye sockets, but the first three trunks are empty of anything interesting, just spare tires and other odds and ends. He’s just reached the fourth one when he hears someone clear their throat behind him. Stiles whips around and finds himself eye to collarbone with a large, bald man with smooth brown skin, wearing a cut-off t-shirt exposing absolutely massive biceps. 

“We have proper insurance for those. And ownership papers.” The man’s voice is a deep rumble, but there’s a twinkle in his eyes and a slight smirk on his face that makes Stiles relax slightly. 

“Is this your new partner, Derek?” This voice belongs to a woman, who pads out of the trees nearby. She’s barefoot, wearing a tank top and shorts, and has long blonde hair hanging in loose ringlets around her shoulders and red lipstick slashed across her mouth. 

“Unfortunately,” Derek replies, and Stiles just barely resists the urge to flip him off. “How are you both?” 

“Fine. Living each day as it comes,” the woman says, stepping forward and pressing a kiss against Derek’s cheek. “Enjoying the sunlight.” 

“You mentioned something about a moon cult?” the man says, and Stiles appreciates that he wants to get right down to business. Derek lays out the groundwork of their case, details the cult’s traits that they’ve gathered so far. When he mentions the symbol, Stiles thinks that the woman’s eyes flicker, but maybe it’s just a trick of the light. 

“Honestly, I haven’t heard of anyone like that,” the guy says, shaking his head. “Most of the groups around here are pretty peaceful. We stay away from the weirder ones.”

“You don’t know _anyone_ that worships the moon, even peacefully?” Stiles asks, more than a little incredulous. 

“Sorry,” the girl says with a shrug. There’s a tiny stain of red lipstick on her front teeth, which are otherwise almost unnaturally white. “We know some Wiccan groups that live further down the seaboard. They might be able to help.” 

“Do you have their contact information?” Derek asks. The girl recites the names and phone numbers of half a dozen people, and Derek obediently writes them all down. Stiles spends that time glancing between the edges of the clearing and the two informants. As he watches, the man glances around and rolls his shoulders. It’s obviously meant to be a casual move, but Stiles still recognizes the look in his eyes. 

They’re scared. Both of them. 

“Are you sure you don’t know anything?” Stiles asks. “The smallest thing could help.” 

“We’re sure,” the girl replies curtly. Even underneath the thick layers of black mascara and eyeliner, the spark of fear is clearly visible in her eyes as well. 

“Alright,” Derek says, flipping his notebook closed. “If you do hear anything, give me a call, alright?” 

“You know it,” the man says, clasping Derek’s hand. “Feel free to stop by sometime. It’s always nice to see you.” 

“We miss you,” the girl says, flashing a smile that looks more like a smirk. When she steps forward to pull Derek into a hug, her whole body molds against his, and her orange painted fingernails curl into the hair at the base of his neck. Derek hugs her back, but his shoulders and arms stay stiff until she steps away and flips her hair over her shoulder. With one last smile and wave, both of them head back into the trees, holding hands, bare feet easily padding over the ground. Stiles waits until they’re no longer visible before he turns on his heel to face Derek. 

“They know something." 

“I know,” Derek mutters, looking over Stiles’ shoulder into the treeline. “I’ve never seen Erica like that before. Something’s spooked them.” 

“It’s Erica now?” Stiles asks with a raised eyebrow. “I thought her name was Reyes.” Derek doesn’t say anything, but his nostrils flare before he turns around and stomps across the clearing towards his car, scattering the crowd of sparrows at the bird feeder. Stiles grins as he lopes after him; he’s pretty sure that Derek didn’t sleep with either of them, but there’s definitely _something_ there, something that he can push at. “You know, that was quite the hug she gave you. Looked like she _really_ likes you.”

“Doubt it,” Derek throws back over his shoulder, but even standing behind him, Stiles can see that the tips of his ears are red again.

“Oh c’mon, it’s obvious. I think her boyfriend likes you too.” Derek is standing in front of the driver's side door, fingers wrapped around the handle, shoulders locked and stiff. Stiles’ grin grows even wider as he steps closer, leaning up slightly so that he can direct his next words directly into Derek’s still red ear.

“Are you seriously going to stay up on your moral high horse when there’s people like _that_ that want to fuck you?” 

Derek whips around, grabs Stiles by the front of his shirt and slams him into the side of the car. It knocks the wind out of him, but Stiles doesn’t let the grin fall from his face.

“Why do you do this?” Derek hisses, tightening his grip on Stiles’ shirt. “Why do you _push?_?”

“I’m curious,” Stiles says, ignoring the hollow pit of pain in his chest from losing his breath. “Am I not allowed to know things about the person I’m supposed to trust with my life?” 

“Then ask away. You can ask what I went to school for, where I grew up, how my damn parents died, if you want to. But no, you just keep asking who I’ve slept with.” He steps even closer, to the point where it’s his chest keeping Stiles pinned against the side of the vehicle, and drops his hands to Stiles’ hips, smooths his thumbs over the bared skin where Stiles' shirt has become untucked. “Are you just jealous? Is that what this is?” 

Stiles isn’t. He’s _not_ jealous. He may want to fuck Derek, but that doesn’t mean he’s jealous of all the people who beat him to it.

“Well maybe if you would finally man up and fuck me, I’d stop asking,” he remarks, arching his hips up into Derek’s hands. He can feel Derek’s breath ghosting over his lips, and when he glances up, Derek’s eyes are only half-open. “C’mon. You can’t say you’re not curious too.” With that, he closes his eyes and erases the space between them, brushes his mouth against Derek’s so quickly that it barely classifies as a kiss. 

Derek’s breathing stutters and stops. 

Stiles opens his eyes, squinting slightly against the sun, and leans back against the car. Derek’s hands are still resting on his hips, and he’s just staring at him, lips parted, eyes half-open. After a few moments of no further movement, Stiles clears his throat and moves backwards, so that his hips are no longer pressed into Derek’s hands. 

Maybe he just totally misread the situation. Maybe Derek really _is_ fucking with him, some kind of ‘no homo’ bullshit. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time someone pulled it on him. 

“Look, if you’re actually not interested, I’ll stop. I-“ 

Derek shoves him back against the car and immediately dives in for a kiss forceful enough to bend Stiles’ neck back. His mouth crushes against Stiles’, and his fingers bite tightly into Stiles’ hips, pulling them flush together. Stiles shoves his hands into Derek’s hair, scratches his nails harshly against his scalp. Derek actually _shudders_ , and the next time Stiles does it, Derek groans against his mouth. 

After only a few moments, Stiles has to breathe. He yanks away, sucking in huge gasps of breath, chest aching. Derek gives him only a few seconds of reprieve before he dives back in. His fingers skim up Stiles’ stomach, fully tear his shirt out of his pants and expose his skin to the sun-warmed metal of the car. When Stiles arches away from the heat, he presses up into Derek’s hands, which feel like they might leave bruises where they’re curling around his ribs. One of his thighs wedges between Stiles’, and Stiles wastes no time in grinding down against it, groaning at the sweet friction. 

If there was any doubt in Stiles’ mind about the situation being a ruse, just another thing for Derek to hold over him, it disappears a few moments later, when Derek’s hips press up against his leg. He’s unmistakably hard, and even through the layers of clothing between them, it’s easy to tell that the guy is _big_ , which is a thought that makes Stiles groan and tighten his fingers on the back of Derek’s neck. 

The next time he has to yank away to breathe, he turns around and presses his chest against the car. Flattening his palms against the roof, he cants his hips back until they’re pressed against Derek’s. 

“There’s lube and condoms in my duffel,” he pants, bracing his forehead against the metal. “In the trunk.” 

“Is that what you want?” Derek asks, scraping his teeth against the shell of Stiles’ ear. He slides one of his palms into the gap between Stiles’ hips and the car, fingers toying with the buckle on his belt. Stiles nods, and when Derek’s palm presses down against where his cock is straining against his pants, he curses. “You want me to fuck you right here, where anyone could see?” 

“Yes, fuck, c’mon,” Stiles groans. Derek’s fingers squeeze him again. 

And then, he steps away.

“No.” 

“ _What_?” Stiles whips around, shirt bunched up around the bottom of his ribs, feeling like he’s going to explode. 

“I said no,” Derek says, absently adjusting himself with one hand. “So tuck your shirt back in and get in the damn car.” 

“Fuck _you_ ,” Stiles hisses, angrily stuffing his shirt back into his pants. It takes him four tries to get the last scrap of fabric tucked away. He doesn’t think he’s ever been more pissed off in his entire life, and part of him wants to lash out. The other part of him wants to steal Derek’s keys and leave him in the goddamn clearing. 

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Derek says. When Stiles turns around to curse him out, Derek grabs him by the front of the shirt, which yanks the fabric right back out of his waistband. 

“What are you _doing_?”

“The first time I fuck you,” Derek says quietly, staring directly into Stiles’ eyes, “it’s going to be somewhere safe. Somewhere you don’t have to keep your mouth shut. Somewhere I don’t have to be concerned about losing my goddamn job because you’re too fucking _loud_.” 

“So there _is_ going to be a first time?” Derek nods and raises his hands to Stiles’ throat, smooths one thumb over where his heartbeat is slamming against his skin. 

“I want there to be.” Stiles grins and leans forward, craning his neck into Derek’s hands. Before he can do more than part his lips to speak, Derek kisses him again, hard enough to make him dizzy. 

“Don’t say anything,” he mutters after he pulls away, hands still pressed tight to the sides of Stiles’ throat. “Don’t ruin this.” 

For once in his life, Stiles manages to keep his mouth shut. 

&. 

Once they get back onto the interstate, Derek plants his hand on Stiles’ thigh and, although the contact is a little more restricting than Stiles likes, he doesn’t try to brush it away. 

They’re still an hour away from Beacon Hills when Stiles’ phone rings. The ID says it’s Parrish calling, so he doesn’t bother with formalities when he answers. 

“What’s up?” 

“We caught one of them,” Parrish says, and Stiles sits bolt upright.

“ _What_?”

“One of the sheriff’s patrols near the Preserve, an hour ago. They found a guy. He had a _body_ , Stiles. And he had the tattoo.”

“Where is he now?” Stiles asks, ignoring Derek’s burning, inquisitive gaze. 

“We have him here in one of the interrogation rooms. The body is down at the morgue, being examined. Looks like one of your street kids, unfortunately.” 

“Fuck,” Stiles mutters, running a hand through his hair. 

“That’s not all.” 

“What else?” 

“He’s asked to talk to you, specifically. He wants to confess.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> time to meet the wolves!

When they pull into the parking lot of the detachment, Stiles leaps from the car before Derek even pulls to a full stop. He stumbles slightly and nearly trips up the steps before he manages to regain his balance and flings the front door open.

“Where is he?” he yells to no one in particular. Thankfully, at that moment, Parrish steps into the lobby, his cheeks flush with color. 

“Down here,” he says, leading Stiles down the hallway to their cells and interrogation rooms. He stops in front of the closest of the latter and, for a moment, Stiles stops breathing. 

The guy sitting calmly at the table, shackled hands clasped in front of him, looks barely older than Stiles. He has brown hair gelled away from his face, a strong, square jaw and dark eyes set deep in his face. He’s staring directly ahead through the one-way glass and, even though Stiles knows he can’t see him, his stomach still churns. 

“What has he said so far?” he asks Parrish.

“Not much. Just that his name is Aiden and he wanted to speak to you personally.” Parrish passes Stiles a file that he’s been carrying underneath his arm. It’s thin, but it contains photos from Aiden’s booking, one of which is of his bare, muscular back. The triskelion tattoo is stark and black between his shoulder blades. In the next picture, his mouth is open wide enough for Stiles to see that his two incisors have been filed into fangs that look sharp enough to rip out someone’s throat. The next photo shows that he has claws too, all ten of his nails grown out and filed to points. 

At least they aren’t metal.

Nails are easier to break. 

“Nothing else?” Stiles asks, passing the file back to Parrish. Parrish shakes his head.

“If he won’t speak to me, there’s no point in going in,” Derek says as he strides up the hallway. “I’ll wait out here. We can go look at the body after.” Stiles nods and smooths down his tie, hoping that he looks respectable enough. 

“Are you alright?” Parrish asks. “There’s a spot on your neck. Looks like a bruise.” He points to the left side of Stiles’ throat and, sure enough, when Stiles prods the skin there, it throbs slightly. He glances over at Derek, curious as to what his reaction will be, but his face stays stoic. His mouth doesn’t even twitch. 

“Yeah, I hit it getting into the car this morning,” Stiles shrugs. “No big deal.” 

“You should be more careful,” Parrish says quietly, dropping his hand to Stiles’ shoulder. “Good luck. Is there anything else you need?”

“We should be fine for now. Thank you, Detective Parrish,” Derek says. It sounds almost curt, but if Parrish notices, he doesn’t say anything. He simply smiles, squeezes Stiles’ shoulder and nods before heading back down the hall. Once he’s turned the corner, Derek steps closer, until they’re nearly toe to toe, close enough that Stiles could lean forward and kiss him, if he wanted to. 

“I’ll be right out here.” 

“If he tears out my throat, tell my dad that he needs to quit drinking,” Stiles replies, taking a deep breath before he steps away from Derek and opens the door to the interrogation room. 

Once the door closes behind him with a quiet snick, the room is as quiet as a tomb. The heat is on, and the room is uncomfortably stuffy, but Aiden doesn’t seem bothered. As Stiles crosses the room, he simply watches him with his small, dark eyes. 

“I’m Detective Stilinski,” Stiles says, settling into the straight backed metal chair across from him. The screech the legs make as they drag across the tiled floor makes a shiver go down his spine. “They tell me your name’s Aiden. That right?”

“Right as rain,” Aiden answers, voice higher and more nasally than Stiles expected. When he speaks, Stiles can see his fangs jutting out underneath the curl of his full lips. 

“I heard that you want to confess to something. Does it have anything to do with the body you were carrying out of the woods?” 

“Maybe,” Aiden says with a shrug, leaning back in his chair as far back as the shackles will allow. He unclasps his hands and lets them rest loosely on the table, displaying all ten of his incredibly sharp, yellow nails. “Is carrying a body out of the woods even a crime?” 

“Technically, that depends on the context,” Stiles answers. “If you actually killed the person or had anything to do with their death, definitely. I’m not sure if you know this, but the California justice system doesn’t look particularly kindly on people who murder kids.”

“Even if they’re street kids? Even if they’re junkies and prostitutes who died serving a greater purpose than they ever could have imagined in their pathetic lives?” 

“Yeah, the law is pretty clear that they still count as people.” Stiles rolls his eyes. “Have you guys ever stopped to think that maybe they don’t want to be drawn into your… whatever it is you guys have going on. Your moon worship, or whatever.” 

“It isn’t just _moon_ worship,” Aiden growls. 

“Feel free to enlighten me then,” Stiles responds. “Otherwise, I’m just gonna keep calling it moon worship.” Aiden’s nostrils flare and his fangs brush against his bottom lip. “So,” he continues, leaning back in his chair until the front legs are off the floor, "are you actually going to confess to anything, or are you just going to keep wasting my time?”

“That depends, Mieczyslaw.” The word rolls perfectly off Aiden’s tongue. It _has_ to be practiced; Stiles has never met a single other person, aside from his mother, who could get it right on the first try. He left that part of him behind as soon as he could legally change it; no one that he works with has ever heard his real first name, not even Parrish. He tries not to let his shock show but, based on how Aiden’s mouth widens into a smirk, he isn’t successful. 

“What does that mean?” he replies belatedly. It’s too late to save his own ass, but he has to _try_. “Sounds like gibberish to me.” 

“C’mon, you’re better than that,” Aiden retorts, so smug that Stiles has a sudden vision of leaping across the table and knocking the guy’s fangs down his throat. “I mean, what did you expect? You were watching us. We were watching you.”

“How long have you been watching me?” Stiles asks, plastering on a grin to cover the fact that he feels like his heart has migrated to his throat. “Tell me you didn’t see the porn I was watching last night.” This time, Aiden throws his head back toward the ceiling and laughs heartily, like he’s heard the funniest damn joke of his life. When he lowers his head again, his smirk has turned into an almost inhumanely large manic grin. 

“When was the last time you talked to Isaac?” 

The legs of Stiles’ chair crash to the floor, and Stiles nearly slams his face into the table. Aiden laughs again and smacks his palms off the table, filling the room with a resounding bang. 

“We know all about your little boy toy,” he continues. “Thinks he’s some kind of parent to all those kids. You know, I don’t think he’ll ever admit it, but I think he’s actually a little soft on you.” 

“He has nothing to do with this,” Stiles says, slamming his own hands on the table as he jumps up out of the chair, sending it crashing to the floor. “You want me? I’ll walk out of here with you right now. No one will touch you. But he has nothing to do with this.” 

“Of _course_ he does,” Aiden replies. “He pointed you in the right direction. And for that, we’re going to make him pay. Along with all the other informants of yours who don’t know how to do as they were told and keep their mouths shut.” 

“You son of a bitch,” Stiles whispers. It all makes sense now, the fear in Erica and Boyd’s eyes, the sense of creeping paranoia that had gripped the back of his neck at Irving Walsh’s house in the woods. All of his hunches, all of the tenuous threads floating through his mind, have been connected in one fell swoop. He leans across the table but Aiden moves backwards out of his reach, lowers his head towards the table and places his own long fingernails to his throat. Stiles instinctively pulls out his gun, just as a tiny rivulet of blood flows from between Aiden’s fingers. 

“Really? This again?” Stiles says, heart pounding as he slides his finger closer to the trigger. “You seriously want to die for this? For this B-movie werewolf shit?” 

“That’s what you still don’t get, _Stiles_ ,” Aiden hisses. “It’s the _only_ thing worth dying for.” 

Before Stiles can move his finger, Aiden presses his nails into his throat and _rips_ , unleashing a gout of blood that sprays across the room. It drenches Stiles’ face, splatters across his eyes and into his mouth and on the one-way mirror behind him. 

He knows that he should be moving, should be trying to stop the flow of blood, put pressure on the wound. But knowing what he should be doing and actually getting his feet to move are two vastly different things, and as he remains frozen, the gouts of blood spurting from Aiden’s throat begin to slow. 

At least he was efficient and nailed his artery on the first go. It’s almost certainly too late for him now and, frankly, Stiles doesn’t _want_ to save him, not when one of his informants is in danger of being murdered. 

That’s what spurs him into action. 

He holsters his gun and bolts out of the room. The area just outside the interrogation room is empty, and he takes off down the hall at a sprint, yanking his phone out of his pocket as he goes, blood dripping down his face and into his eyes.

“Derek!” he screams, trying to type in his password and smearing more blood across the screen.

“He just ran outside!” Parrish say, popping out of the bullpen as Stiles reaches the building’s lobby. “Stiles, are you-“

“Call an ambulance!” he yells over his shoulder as he bolts out the door and into the parking lot. He skids to a stop at the bottom of the steps. There’s a moment of panic as he whips his head around, looking for Derek’s car, but before he can scream again, the Camaro whips around the side of the building and comes to a squealing stop right in front of him, and the passenger door flies open. 

“Get in!”

He dives inside and yanks the door closed. Derek immediately slams on the accelerator, sending him crashing against the window. He barely notices the pain as his head strikes the glass; he’s too focused on wiping his hands on his pants and unlocking his phone. 

(He’s probably going to have to replace it, but that’s a problem for another day.)

His first call rings through to Isaac’s voicemail. Stiles immediately tries again, all while giving Derek directions to Isaac’s apartment building. He hits voicemail once more and presses redial once more, praying to every god he knows that Isaac will pick up his fucking phone. 

Apparently, someone up there likes him, because this time, on the fourth ring, Isaac’s extremely disgruntled voice answers. 

“What the fuck do you want?” 

“Are you in your apartment?”

“Yeah, but if you want something, you’re gonna have to wait a few hours. I’m with a customer.”

“Send them home. Send them home right now, I’ll fucking reimburse you whatever they were going to pay,” Stiles babbles, slamming his hand on the dash to steady himself as Derek whips around another corner. “You need to get that person out of there now and lock your doors. Push something against them if you can _right fucking now_.” 

“Fuck, alright, I’ll send them home. Are you-“

“We’ll be there in ten minutes.” Isaac says something else, but it’s cut off by a sudden explosion of noise, which is followed by a scream. 

“Isaac, what the fuck is happening?” Stiles yells. Without even being prompted, Derek goes faster, speeds through a red light and swerves around a slow-moving van.

“Someone just broke in. I’m in the bathroom with the door locked, but I don’t think it’ll hold.” 

“We’ll be there soon, just hold on!” Stiles hangs up and tosses his phone into the backseat. The road is whipping past on either side of him, and all he can smell is blood, drying on his skin, growing thick and tacky, clogging his every pore. 

“What happened?” Derek asks, eyes locked on the road, hands tight around the steering wheel.

“They’re there,” Stiles says, trying to suck breath back into his rapidly heaving chest. “They just broke down his door.” 

“How many of them?”

“Fuck, Derek, I don’t know! You’ve seen these psychos, one of them would be enough!”

“They’re just humans,” Derek says, slamming his hand into the horn as he uses the shoulder of the road to swing around a truck. “The only difference between them and anyone else is the fangs and claws.” Once they’re back on the actual road, Derek’s hand lands on his knee and squeezes tightly. “Isaac just needs to hold on a little longer.”

Stiles knows that Isaac can take care of himself, that he’s had to fight off a few handy customers who wouldn’t take no for an answer, but some dude with wandering hands is a little different than a fanged and clawed fanatic jacked up on the power of belief.

He just has to hope that they won’t be too late.

&.

As soon as they pull into the parking lot, Stiles hits the ground running. Thankfully, while Isaac’s building is still fancier than most on this side of town, it isn’t fancy enough to have something as exclusive as a front entrance requiring a security code, and Stiles slams into the door hard enough to make his shoulder throb in pain. The lobby is empty, and he bolts past the elevator bank for the stairs, Derek hot on his heels. His chest is heaving, and there’s sweat pouring down his face, mingling with Aiden’s blood. 

He skids to a stop at the door that opens onto the third floor. There’s a small window set into the door, and he peers through it, listening carefully just in case there’s someone just on the other side. 

“Anything?” Derek asks, standing so close that the words wash over the back of Stiles’ neck. Stiles shakes his head, slowly twists the handle and pushes the door open. They both slip through, closing it soundlessly behind them. The hallway is quiet, aside from the buzzing of the lights overhead, but as they get closer to Isaac’s door, a rhythmic, wet sound grows louder and louder. Stiles slowly creeps down the hallway and pulls himself up just short of Isaac’s door frame. The wet, rhythmic sound continues, and he can hear something else underneath it, a soft humming. 

He’s just about to step around the corner when someone starts speaking. 

“Stop struggling. This will be so much easier if you just stay still.” 

“Fuck _you_ ,” Isaac hisses.

“I don’t want to hurt you anymore than I have to, but we gave you a chance to come willingly and… well, your friend over there is evidence of what we can do.” 

Slowly, Stiles shifts his weight until he can peer around the corner into Isaac’s apartment. While some of his door is valiantly clinging to the hinges, most of it is lying on the kitchen floor, hit with such force that chunks of it are sitting in the kitchen sink and sticking out of the takeout containers littering Isaac’s counter. Stiles’ eyes only briefly focus on the mess before he glances into the living room. 

There’s no hope of saving Isaac’s client; what’s left of him is resting on the living room carpet. There’s a man kneeling on the floor, and his fingers, which are tipped with either artificial claws or extremely sharp nails, are plunging into the client’s chest over and over again. Every time he does it, a small spray of blood hits him in the face but, as Stiles watches, he simply licks it off his lips and digs even further into the client’s torso. 

He has no eyes on the woman that he heard speaking to Isaac, but there’s no other way to get into the apartment and no other way for them to determine where she is; the building is surrounded by roads and clumps of row houses that wouldn’t offer a good vantage for any sniper, and even if they _did_ call someone in, Stiles knows that Isaac will be dead before they can arrive, and while Stiles may want to strangle Isaac more often than not, he doesn’t deserve to drown in his own blood. 

“I’ll cover your back,” Derek whispers in Stiles’ ear, which gets Stiles moving. He darts forward into the kitchen and fixes his gun on the kneeling man, safety off.

“CBI, step away from the body!” he yells, feeling rather than hearing Derek move behind him. The man looks up, face splattered with blood, and grins broadly. He yanks his claws from the client’s gaping chest with a squelching, sucking sound and jumps to his feet. 

“Kali, they’re here,” he sing-songs. There’s the sound of a struggle in the other room before the woman that Stiles heard speaking steps into the living room. She has black hair reaching to her waist and firm brown skin that’s exposed by her halter top and cropped jeans. She’s not wearing shoes, and her toenails are long, curving into points that look sharp enough to disembowel. She’s dragging Isaac with her, one fang-tipped hand wrapped in his curls and the other pressed against the extended line of his throat.

“You’re early,” she says, voice steady and measured, like they’re having a normal conversation about the weather. “Shame. Although I guess I get to see your reaction in person now. Maybe this is even better.” The flex of her fingers is almost invisible, but the tiny trails of blood that streak down Isaac’s neck are the furthest thing from. 

“Why kill him when you’ve got me?” Stiles asks. He spreads his arms wide and slides his finger away from the trigger of his gun. “It’s me you’ve got the problem with, right? Isaac’s nothing. He’s just some street trash, like all the other ones you pick up. C’mon.” He twists his head and stretches his neck back, exposing the long line of his throat. 

Stiles hopes to God that the weird connection he’s formed with Derek is a mutual thing, because his very life depends on Derek understanding him. As quickly as he can, he glances from Derek’s gun back up to his eye. At the same time, he minutely nods his head towards Kali and winks. 

The corner of Derek’s mouth twitches in response. 

“C’mon Kali,” he continues. “I’ve been told I’ve got a pretty nice throat. Wouldn’t you like to tear it out?” Kali’s fingers stay wrapped around Isaac’s neck, but something changes in her eyes. The tip of her tongue brushes over her bottom lip, and as Stiles slowly returns his head back to center, keeping his arms spread wide, he can tell that she’s considering it. 

But then she shrugs.

“Or I could kill both of you right now, and I can still save _him_ for later.” This time, her eyes fix on Derek, and a feral grin spreads across her face. Her grip in Isaac’s hair tightens as she yanks his head even further back. 

Stiles takes exactly half a second to look into Isaac’s panicked eyes before he makes his move. 

He brings his gun back down to his palm and takes only a moment to line up his shot before he fires, just as the male cult member springs for him. The shot goes through the man’s forehead, just above the bridge of his nose. As Stiles pivots to face Kali, Derek’s gun goes off as well. The shot hits Kali in the thigh, inches away from her femoral artery. She screams and Stiles fires again, burying a second bullet just below Derek’s. Thankfully, she lets go of Isaac’s hair, but as she shoves him towards them, her claws rake across his throat. Isaac gasps and immediately slams a hand to his neck as he drops to his knees. Stiles fires after Kali as she darts back into Isaac’s bedroom, somehow quick even with two bullets buried in her leg, but the shot goes wide and slams into the wall. After visually checking that Isaac will be okay for a few moments, Stiles goes after her. 

He runs into the bedroom just in time to see Kali throw herself through Isaac’s window. Stiles freezes in his tracks for a moment, unable to believe what he just witnessed, before he crosses to the shattered window, boots crunching over glass.

Kali might just be the luckiest fucker he’s ever met. She’s landed in a nearly overflowing garbage bin behind the building, her fall cushioned by dozens of trash bags. She’s sprawled on her back, but she’s not dead; her limbs are twitching, like she’s trying to pull herself up. 

Even if she hasn’t broken anything, the breath has definitely been knocked out of her, which means they have a window of a few minutes before she’s back on her feet. 

“She’s in a dumpster behind the building!” Stiles hollers as he runs back into the living room. “We can get her if we move fast!”

“I’ve got her,” Derek says, jumping to his feet from where he’s been kneeling beside Isaac. “You stay here with him. The ambulance is on its way.” He sprints out the door, boots crunching over splintered fragments of the front door and Stiles immediately takes his place, kneeling beside Isaac on the floor. He rips his tie from around his neck and quickly wraps it around Isaac’s wounds. Thankfully, she missed the major arteries, but he’s still bleeding fairly heavily, and Stiles will be fucked if Isaac dies in front of him.

“Let me know if you can’t breathe,” he says, applying pressure to the wounds. Isaac gasps again and wraps his fingers tight around Stiles’ forearms. His eyes drift over to where his client is lying eviscerated on the floor, and his face goes stark white. 

“Don’t look at that,” Stiles demands, grabbing Isaac’s jaw with his other hand and gently turning it back to him. “Eyes on me, alright?” The tie isn’t enough to stem the blood flowing from Isaac’s neck, so Stiles jerks his button-up off with one hand and layers it on top. “It’s gonna be alright. You’re gonna be alright,” he mutters, watching as blossoms of red flourish on his shirt. 

“What happened to you?” Isaac croaks. The hand that isn’t wrapped around Stiles’ forearm reaches up to reach for Stiles’ face. 

“I’m fine, don’t worry about me,” Stiles says, catching Isaac’s hand and pushing it back down to his lap. “Don’t talk, okay?” Isaac’s eyes close and his head droops slightly, but his grip doesn’t loosen on Stiles’ arm. 

By the time he hears the door at the end of the hallway bang open, the blood flow has begun to slow, but Stiles’ shirt is a complete write-off. When the footsteps get closer, he whips around and raises his gun, continuing to put pressure against Isaac’s neck. Thankfully, it’s just Derek who appears in the doorway, panting slightly. He shakes his head, hands drawn into fists at his sides. 

“She’s gone. I almost had her, but someone pulled up in a van and threw her in. I couldn’t get the plate number.”

“Fuck,” Stiles groans, holstering his gun again. “Any word on the paramedics?” 

“They’re here.” As he says it, Stiles realizes that he can faintly hear sirens. “Isaac, can you walk?”

“I’m not that useless,” Isaac croaks. He rises up onto his knees and Stiles slings his free arm around Isaac’s waist, hauling him to his feet. He’s a heavy guy, and most of his weight is squarely leaning against Stiles’ side, but he does his best not to topple over. He smells like fear sweat and blood, an appalling mixture at the best of times, but Stiles is just happy that he’s alive. 

“Did you know his name? Your client, I mean,” Stiles asks, pulling Isaac towards the door before he can look back at the bloody pulp lying on the floor.

“Not his real one.” 

“We’ll figure it out,” Derek says. “I’ll stay here and secure the scene. You go with Isaac to the hospital.” 

“I don’t need a hospital.” 

“Yes, you damn well do,” Stiles asserts. “There’s no telling what that crazy bitch had on her fingernails, and I’m not having you die of an infection after I saved you from bleeding out.” 

“How very noble of you,” Isaac mutters. He sways slightly, and Stiles hauls Isaac’s arm over his shoulder so that he can support more of his weight. By the time they reach the lobby, Isaac is shaking slightly, and Stiles pulls him along even faster; he’s going into shock, and he needs to get into an ambulance sooner rather than later. Thankfully, the paramedics are parked right out front, and Stiles meets them halfway, passes Isaac off to two burly men who look like they could carry him with one hand tied behind their backs. 

“He’s going into shock,” Stiles says, wiping a sweaty lock of hair away from Isaac’s damp forehead. “And he’s lost a lot of blood.”

“Are you riding with him?”

“Yeah.” Isaac manages to climb into the back of the ambulance under his own volition, but he immediately collapses back onto the gurney, shivering profusely. Stiles slides over on the bench that lines one wall of the ambulance, pressing himself up against a cabinet containing a defibrillator so that he's out of the way. Once they get in, one of the paramedics throws a shock blanket over Isaac while the other starts dabbing something on his wounds. It smells antiseptic in nature, and it must hurt like a bitch, because Isaac hisses through his teeth and reaches out blindly with his hand. When Stiles grabs it, Isaac squeezes hard enough for Stiles’ knuckles to crack.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Stiles repeats, forcing himself to stare at the opposite wall as the paramedics wipe more antiseptic over Isaac’s wounds. "It's gonna be okay." 

Stiles reckons that he repeats the phrase three dozen times, but even by the time they pull into the hospital, he’s no closer to believing it than he was the first time.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two new tags have been added! hope you all enjoy this chapter!

Stiles knows that, technically, he should head back to the station once he knows that Isaac is okay, because there’s going to be dozens of pages of paperwork to fill out; there always is when you kill someone in the field. 

But while the EMTs have confirmed that Isaac is going to survive, Stiles isn’t going anywhere until he can actually get in to see him. 

He’s been keeping in contact with Derek while he paces across the waiting room. Derek discovered the name of Isaac's client on a driver's license in the blood soaked wallet in the remnants of his pants, and the first time he calls Stiles, he’s on his way to inform the client’s family. He calls again once he’s left, and there’s no mistaking the roughness in his voice, like he’s approximately two seconds away from breaking down, but when Stiles tries to talk about it, he immediately jumps to a different subject. 

“Any word on Isaac?”

“Still waiting,” Stiles sighs, running a hand through his hair. He’s had a chance to wash most of the blood off his face, after the doctors took some to test for any diseases, but he can still feel it stuck to his scalp near his hairline. “They should be letting me in to see him soon.” 

“Okay. Let me know when you’re done.”

“Will do.” Stiles hangs up and goes back to pacing, ignoring the disgruntled looks that the other people dotted around the waiting room are flashing him. Finally, just when he’s sure that blisters are about to spring up on the bottom of his feet, a nurse appears in the doorway to the waiting room. 

“Detective Stilinski? He’s ready for you.” 

“Thank freaking God,” Stiles mutters, scrubbing a hand through his hair one last time as he follows her out of the room. She leads him away from the hubbub near the admissions desk to a small room at the end of the hall. It’s not private but, miraculously, the bed closest to the door is unoccupied. Isaac is in the other one, underneath the window. His hair is a tangled mess, there’s an IV threaded into his arm and a bandage wrapped around his neck, extending up almost to the bottom of his chin. 

“I’ll be nearby if you need me,” the nurse says, closing the door. Stiles waits until she’s gone before he plops down into the plastic chair sandwiched between the bed and the window. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks. Isaac shrugs, mouth curling into something that might be considered a smile in an alternate universe. 

“Alright, given the circumstances,” he rasps. His eyes flit across the room, startlingly blue in his bloodless face. “How am I going to pay for this?”

“Don’t worry about that,” Stiles dismisses with a wave of his hand. “I’ll figure it out, alright?” Isaac sighs and nods, slumping back against the pillows. The longer the silence between them stretches out, the more jittery Stiles gets. He knows that, technically, he should be under observation as well, should at least be scheduling some sessions with the therapist the detachment keeps on call, but he has no time for that. As long as those assholes are still running around, everything else can take a backseat. 

“Look, Isaac,” he sighs, reaching out and wrapping his hand around Isaac’s wrist. “Your apartment is a crime scene. It’s going to be awhile before you can go back there. You can crash at my place if you want, or I can get you a hotel room, there’s some pretty decent places out by the-“

“Stiles,” Isaac interrupts, tugging his wrist away from Stiles’ grip and sliding it underneath the covers. “As soon as they let me out of here, I’m heading out of town. Got a friend who lives up north that’ll let me stay with her. I’ll answer anything I can from there if you need me but… I can’t do this anymore.” His voice is little more than a whisper by the time he finishes. Stiles nods, swallowing past the lump that has sprung up in his throat. He can’t say that he blames Isaac (frankly, he completely fucking understands), but there’s a burning feeling deep in his gut, spreading across his skin, warm as Aiden’s blood had been when it'd splattered against his face. It almost feels like embarrassment, but it’s something deeper than that, something like _shame_. 

“I get it,” he says, hating how weak and quiet his own voice sounds. “I do. But I’m still paying for your room.”

“I’m not gonna stop you,” Isaac chuckles, the words dissolving into a coughing fit that makes pain radiate across his entire face. Once he’s stopped, Stiles clambers to his feet and claps one hand on Isaac’s shoulder. It’s meant to be conciliatory, something to bridge the gulf between them, but it feels so _wrong_. 

“Try not to talk too much, alright? Let me know if you need anything else.” 

Isaac flashes him a thumbs up. 

Before he slides out the door, Stiles takes one last look over his shoulder. Isaac’s eyes are still open, but he’s looking out the window at the sky, still streaked with the last hoorah of sunset. His cheekbones are prominent against his skin, even sharper than usual, and there’s a spot of blood on the side of his neck, peeking out above the edge of the bandage. 

All in all, considering that it’s likely his last time seeing Isaac, Stiles thinks it’s a pretty shitty view. 

&.

Stiles plans on grabbing a cab from the hospital, maybe stopping somewhere on the way to pick up a bottle of cheap whiskey, but he’s just stepped outside the automatic doors and raised his phone to his ear when he realizes there’s a black Camaro parked just down the street. The license plate number looks familiar, so he slides his phone back into his pocket and jogs over. The driver’s window is down and, sure enough, Derek is in the driver’s seat, seat belt off, head tilted back. 

“Thought you were heading home,” Stiles says quietly, leaning his forearms on the edge of the window and bending over so he can peer inside. 

“Me too,” Derek replies. “Obviously, that didn’t happen.” 

“Obviously.” Stiles sighs and lets his head hang loosely between his shoulders. When he looks down at his fingers, he can see them trembling, but it’s like he’s looking at them through glass. Everything is blurry, pixelated. He sucks in a deep breath, inhaling the scent of sweat and Derek’s aftershave and blood, and he’s momentarily able to focus. 

“Can you give me a ride home? I don’t think I really need to subject a cab driver to… well, to this,” he mutters, gesturing to his blood soaked clothes. 

“Sure,” Derek says, leaning across the console and pushing open the passenger door. Stiles goes around the hood and slides inside.

“I think I should have a bonfire,” Stiles says, plucking at the thighs of his trousers. The fabric is so stiff from all the blood it’s absorbed that it cracks underneath his fingertips. “Burn all the clothes I’ve bloodied over the last few weeks.” 

“I’ve got a few things to add to the pile,” Derek adds, pulling away from the curb. 

“Great, we’ll have it in the parking lot. Invite all of my neighbors.” Stiles’ laugh sounds hollow in his ears, and of all the things they’ve faced in this case, that’s what scares him the most. 

“Do you want cops watching your place?” Derek asks, loosely gripping the steering wheel with one hand. His other is draped over his thigh, spanning from one side to the other, and for a few moments, all Stiles can do is stare at it. He knows what Derek’s fingers feel like wrapped around his hips and curved around the back of his neck, but for a few seconds, he wants to know what they would feel like entangled between his own. 

He shakes his head hard and, just like that, the thought disappears. 

“No,” he replies, shaking his head again. “I’m pretty sure those assholes won’t be coming back again anytime soon. Not unless they plan on dumping more bodies in the woods.” 

“I talked to Parrish on my way over here. He said that the deputies are going to keep their patrols up, just in case. But honestly, until tomorrow morning, I’m not thinking about anything that happened today.” 

“How can you just shut it out?” Stiles asks. Unexpectedly, his voice cracks halfway through the sentence, and he screws his eyes shut, forces himself to take a deep, slow breath. 

Derek sighs and drops his hand to Stiles’ knee. 

“It’s not as easy as I’m making it out to be,” he says quietly. “It’s just practice. You just compartmentalize, put all the shit you don’t want to think about behind a wall. Even if you can only do it for a few hours, sometimes that’s enough to get you through the day.” 

“It always comes back when I sleep,” Stiles mutters. He feels zapped to the bone, but no matter how tired he is, he can’t look forward to sleeping. He knows that as soon as he shuts his eyes, he’s going to be sucked down into nightmares, knows it like he knows his own name. 

“Me too.” It’s so quiet that Stiles can barely hear it over the noise of the road underneath the tires. When he glances over, Derek’s face is open and unguarded, and for a few moments, he looks so damn _young_ that Stiles can’t believe this is the same guy that threatened to ruin his entire career. 

“I never would have imagined,” he mumbles, looking away. It doesn’t feel right that he’s seeing Derek this way. All the other people he’s worked alongside over the years (with the exception of Parrish) have been extremely guarded with their emotions. Hell, some of the ones who were married didn’t even show excitement on their anniversaries. They just shrugged and went about what they were doing like it was any ordinary day. 

The fact that Derek doesn’t seem to care about how Stiles sees him implies something that Stiles, frankly, isn’t prepared to deal with. 

“I just kick less than you do,” Derek says quietly, and some of the levity comes back into the car like a whoosh of fresh air. Stiles even manages to crack a smile that doesn’t feel entirely fake. 

“Sorry about that,” he replies. “Guess I just like marking people up.” 

“I’m not surprised.” Derek laughs slightly, and Stiles finds himself laughing along.

This time, it sounds real, even to his own ears. 

&.

Before they get back to Stiles’ apartment, Stiles calls Parrish and asks if he can arrange for a few deputies to inconspicuously keep an eye on Scott’s house. He doesn’t want to freak Scott out, and he’s pretty certain that the cult isn’t going to pull another stunt tonight, not when two of their own are dead (maybe three, if Kali ended up bleeding out), but he isn’t going to take a chance. 

He can take not seeing Isaac again for the rest of his life, but just thinking about the possibility of losing Scott and his family makes his chest feel hollow, like his heart has been ripped out.

He finds himself glancing back and forth once they pull into his parking lot, looking for anyone lurking in the shadows beyond the reach of the streetlights, but the place is quiet, except for a few kids skateboarding at the other end of the lot. Derek stops in visitor parking and, before he can say anything, Stiles twists in his seat. 

“Want to come in for a bit?” he asks. “Fair warning, the place is kind of a shithole, and I don’t think I have any food. Maybe some beer, but you won’t drink that and-“

“Stiles, I’ve probably seen worse,” Derek says, twisting his keys and turning the car off. “Besides, a beer might actually be nice right about now.” 

“Who are you and what have you done with Derek Hale?” Stiles asks mockingly, sliding out of the car. The night is cool, but the breeze gusting across the parking lot carries the smell of flowers with it. Summer is rapidly approaching. Soon, wearing a tie to work will be even more hellish than usual. 

“I’m not a total prude,” Derek retorts. There’s a bit of a snap to it, something that Stiles knows he could really have fun with if he pushed a little, but he’s had to deal with enough shit today. 

For once, pushing Derek doesn’t actually sound fun. 

“Could have fooled me,” he replies, fishing for his keys in his pocket. “C’mon. There’s a bottle in the fridge with your name on it. Maybe.” 

As it turns out, there’s still three bottles left from the six-pack Isaac bought for him. While Derek takes off his boots at the door, Stiles darts ahead and does his best to clean up the living room. By the time Derek follows after him, he’s managed to throw all of the miscellaneous pieces of clothing scattered across the floor behind a stack of books beside the television. There’s no saving the coffee table, which is a mess of cracked mugs, old mail, stained novels and take-out coffee cups, but amazingly, Derek’s nose only slightly turns up when he sinks onto the couch. 

“I think there’s something bad in your kitchen,” he says, shedding his jacket and draping it over the arm of the couch. 

“Probably,” Stiles shrugs. “Isaac bought me some stuff when I let him stay here. I’ll deal with it later.” He kicks his boots in the general direction of his bedroom before he sinks down beside Derek and reaches for the remote. The TV is tuned to a terrible reality show that he leaves on, turning the volume down low. “I’ve probably got some movies around here somewhere, if you want to watch that instead,” he continues, splaying his legs apart and sinking into the cushions. “Or books. Got loads of those.” 

“I noticed,” Derek says dryly, leaning forward and plucking one off the coffee table. “Have you read them all?”

“Give or take a few. There’s even more of them in the bedroom, but you’re not going in there. It’s a fucking disaster.” 

“Thought you wanted me in your bed.” Derek says it like a quip, but when Stiles glances over, the look on his face is anything but amused. His eyes are hooded slightly, and one of his jaw muscles is twitching. He doesn’t break eye contact with Stiles; he just keeps staring, mouth set into a firm line. 

In the time it takes Derek to blink, Stiles makes a decision. 

Jumping to his feet, he moves to stand between Derek’s splayed legs. He pushes the coffee table backwards with his legs before he lifts his trembling fingers and pops open the top button of his blood covered shirt. He moves onto the second and then the third, all without letting his eyes leave Derek’s. 

“If you want me to stop, tell me,” he says, taking the time to undo the cuffs before he drops the shirt to the floor. 

“Don’t stop.” 

Stiles pulls off his t-shirt and tosses it aside as well. Settling his fingers on his belt, he pauses for a moment, fingernails just scraping over the cool metal, to crack his neck and take a deep breath, trying to ignore the deluge of thoughts flooding his mind. He’s heard affirmations from enough people over the years to know that he’s not bad looking, and he knows that Derek wants him in _some_ way, but suddenly everything seems to be screaming that this is a mistake, that he’s about to jump into something way over his head. 

But fuck it. He’s already drowning. 

His bloody trousers fall to the floor and he steps out of them before pausing again, fingers hovering over the waistband of his briefs. 

“Not yet,” Derek says, voice cracking slightly. He sits up on the couch and slides over, moving a few inches away from the armrest. “I want to do that.” 

_Last chance_ murmurs one of the many errant thoughts floating around Stiles’ brain.

Stiles tells every last one of them to fuck off as he fits himself into Derek’s lap. He doesn’t have to wait for a kiss; Derek cranes up to meet him right away and wraps one huge hand around the back of Stiles’ neck, pulling him down closer. Stiles parts his lips and slides his knees further apart, until both of them are pressed into the couch on either side of Derek’s hips. He wraps both of his hands into the rough fabric of Derek’s shirt, already searching for the warm skin that he knows is underneath. Thankfully, Derek doesn’t make him wait long; with his free hand, he starts nimbly undoing the buttons with such casual sureness that Stiles is momentarily envious of. As soon as the last one pops free, he leans forward and tears his shirt off, flinging it off to the side. 

Now _there’s_ the warm skin Stiles has been seeking. 

He yanks away as far as Derek’s tight grip will allow and rakes his fingernails through the dark, coarse hair covering Derek’s chest. The noise that leaves Derek’s mouth in response is somewhere between a gasp and a groan, and Stiles wants to hear it again many, many times. 

Derek kisses like a starved man, capturing his mouth over and over until Stiles feels dizzy from not getting a chance to breathe. Eventually, his hand falls from Stiles’ nape and slides down his back. Once it reaches the dip at the base of his spine, it presses in hard, and an unbidden groan bursts from Stiles’ mouth. He hadn’t noticed before (or maybe he’d simply been ignoring it), but Derek’s touch makes him all too aware of how sore he is. 

“Are you alright?” Derek asks, yanking his hand away like he’s been burned. “Do you want to stop?” The worry in his eyes is so palpable that Stiles has to blink a few times, unable to believe that the man could go from having blown pupils to looking totally unaroused in a single moment. 

“I’m fine,” Stiles answers, the words coming out needier than he likes. “Just a little sore.” He leans back down into Derek’s space and carefully sinks his teeth into Derek’s swollen bottom lip. Although it takes a moment, Derek comes back to him, even more forceful than before. This time, his hands skim even lower, until they’re grasping Stiles’ ass tightly, and Stiles buries his groan into Derek’s mouth.

“Did you mean it, about me not seeing your bedroom?” Derek asks when they next take a break to breathe, lips brushing up the long line of Stiles’ neck, teeth scraping along the jut of his jaw. It’s all Stiles can do to force himself to think coherently enough to respond. 

“It’s nothing weird,” he gasps, tilting his head back and grinding his hips down. “There’s just books everywhere. Wouldn’t be very comfortable.” When Derek’s teeth latch onto his earlobe, he has to start thinking all over again. “I mean, we _could_ stop and head over to your place-“ 

Derek cuts him off mid-sentence by kissing him until Stiles sees fireworks flashing behind his eyelids. 

When Derek gets up to take off his pants, Stiles shifts so that he’s lying down, head propped against the armrest. If there’s one thing he likes about his couch, it’s that it’s almost absurdly wide, which means that, when Derek is finished with his pants, there’s more than enough room for him to comfortably slot between Stiles’ legs. 

This in turn means that, when Derek grinds down against him, their cocks slot together perfectly. Stiles throws his head back and digs his fingers hard into Derek’s hips, urging him down harder. 

There’s lube somewhere in the room, Stiles is sure of that. It might be resting on one of the stacks of books in the corner or it might be buried underneath everything on the coffee table. More likely than not, it’s stuck under the couch cushions. 

But even if it’s within easy reach, it’s still too damn far away. He isn’t willing to get up again, even if it means he’ll have to wait a little longer to have Derek fuck him properly. 

Besides, it’s not like Derek’s dick is exactly a consolation prize, even when it’s still two layers of fabric away from touching Stiles’ own. After a few minutes of Derek’s hips grinding down against his, the urge to feel it bare and pressed against him is irresistible. He pulls back, all too aware of how the entire lower half of his face and his neck is prickling with stubble burn, and plucks at the band of Derek’s briefs. 

“Off,” he mutters when the elastic stays stubbornly stuck to Derek’s skin. 

“Always impatient,” Derek mutters in return, sitting up on his knees and hooking his fingers into his waistband. 

“Yeah, well, you’ve fucking made me wait long enough,” Stiles says, mouth going dry when Derek finally slides his briefs down his well-muscled thighs. His dick is thick and uncut, and Stiles wants it back on his _now_. He shoves his own underwear down and off before he yanks Derek back down. 

“I didn’t make you wait _that_ long,” Derek replies. Stiles has a clever retort on his tongue, but Derek kisses him before he can get it out of his mouth and wraps his thick fingers around Stiles’ cock. 

For once, Stiles can’t say that he minds not having the last word.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if this chapter had an actual title, it would be, "learn how to fucking communicate with each other."

By the time all is said and done, Stiles feels like he’s going to pass out. There’s come splattered across his stomach and dripping off onto the couch, and he knows it should gross him out or, at the very least, spur him into getting up and padding into the bathroom, but he can’t be bothered. 

Besides, it’s probably about time that he gave his couch a good cleaning.

Derek is still hovering above him, although Stiles has no idea how he has enough strength to hold himself up. His dark hair is matted to his forehead with sweat, and Stiles absently uses his (mostly) clean hand to push it away before scratching at his own jaw. Now that the adrenaline has started to wear off, the stubble burn around his mouth and face has progressed to full on irritation.

“I’ll be louder next time,” he says once he’s gotten most of his breath back. “Just didn’t really want to get another noise complaint.” Derek laughs quietly, but the sound immediately puts Stiles on edge. 

The laugh sounds hollow. Fake. 

“Where’s your bathroom?” Derek asks as he sits up and tugs his briefs back up to his waist. There are a few drops of come mingled into the thick trail of hair leading down to his cock, but most of it seems to have landed on Stiles. 

“Round the corner, off the kitchen.” Derek gets to his feet, grabs his trousers and his shirt from the floor and disappears around the corner. As soon as he’s out of sight, Stiles sits up as well and starts hunting for some tissues. He ends up with a handful of (mostly) clean napkins instead and, while he cleans himself up, he tries very hard not to focus on the invasive thoughts that have returned to his mind with full force. 

Unsurprisingly, he fails. 

By the time Derek returns, Stiles has progressed no further than pulling his briefs back up. For the first time in weeks, he’s been hit with a craving for a cigarette, so powerful that he can feel the phantom smoke flooding his mouth and throat. 

“I should get home,” Derek says, scooping up his jacket. There’s a hickey sitting at the base of his throat, just above the collar of his shirt. 

“Want a beer for the road?” 

“Next time, maybe. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Hopefully not earlier.” 

“Hopefully not,” Stiles echoes, forcing himself to smile as Derek leaves the room. As soon as he hears the door open and then close again, he sags back against the couch and sighs. 

He can’t get the feeling that he just made a massive mistake out of his head.

Grabbing the remote, he turns the volume up on the television and starts flicking through channels. Per usual, there’s nothing decent on; more reality shows, some absurd cartoons, religious programs. He finally finds a Western that’s halfway over and, although it’s far from his favorite genre, he throws it on, hoping that it’ll distract his brain from thinking about Derek until he’s able to get some sleep. When that doesn’t work, he tries to run over the details of the case in his head, tries to read half a dozen different books, tries just closing his eyes and laying there silently. 

Nothing works. 

He throws the latest book across the room in disgust and digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. When he stretches his legs out, his toes snag on a piece of fabric, and he drops his hands back to his lap and glances down at the end of the couch. It’s his shirt from earlier, and his pants are also within sight, although his tie and tee are lost to the abyss of his darkened living room. 

Just like that, an idea appears in his mind. 

He leaps to his feet, grabs the clothes from the floor and tosses them onto the couch to form the start of a pile. He crosses the room, stepping over bits of debris and books, and pushes open the door to his bedroom. He’s in and out of the room whenever he needs to get clothes from the closet or his dressers (although, more often than not, he just leaves his clean clothes in a hamper in the living room and grabs them from there), but the room still feels like it’s been untouched for years. When he flicks on the tall lamp beside the door, dust motes swirl through the air in front of him. They crawl into his mouth and up his sinuses, and he buries a sneeze into the crook of his elbow. 

The place is a minefield. The broken bookshelves sag against the wall, expelling their contents onto the floor like a drunk man vomiting. Splinters and nails litter the carpet, and Stiles keeps his gaze on the floor as he steps across the room. The bed hasn’t been made in ages, and the sheets and blankets are wedged into the small gap between the bed and the wall. Stiles is pretty sure they’re resting directly on top of the radiator, and he absently wonders how much longer it’ll be before they catch fire. 

In addition to the splinters and screws and dust, the floor is littered with discarded pieces of clothing, and he picks up each individual piece and examines it closely. All of it, without exception, smells terrible, but there’s different kinds of terrible. Some of them smell like mildew or stale sweat, and he throws those clothes onto the bed so that he can wash them at some point in the future. But some of the clothes smell more insidious. Some of them are covered in long dried blood, and some are stained with unidentifiable fluids, and he tosses all of those clothes behind him, out the bedroom door.

Both of the piles grow sizable. He keeps finding clothes in nooks and crannies; under the bed, buried underneath the avalanche of books, hiding behind the bedroom door. He digs and digs until he reaches the back of the closet and only then does he stop. He’s sure that there are still more clothes hidden around the apartment, tucked back behind the television or shoved underneath the couch, but for the time being, he thinks that he has enough fuel. 

He clambers back to his feet, finds a pair of sweatpants and a shirt that isn’t too disgusting, tugs them on and shoves his feet into a pair of slippers that Scott got him for Christmas a few years ago before he heads into the kitchen to grab a garbage bag. The stained clothes end up filling half of the bag, and as he hefts it over his shoulder, Stiles can’t help but wonder how many bags it would take to contain all of Derek’s bloodied clothes. 

Probably more than he has tucked under the sink. 

He rummages through the crap covering his coffee table until he finds a cheap plastic lighter, left over from his smoking days. It takes three flicks of his thumb to get a weak flame going, but it’ll have to do. After searching through the living room and kitchen, he manages to find a handful of old fliers and newspapers, and at the back of one of his cabinets, he discovers an unopened bottle of vodka covered in an inch of dust. He’s not exactly sure where it came from, but he can think of a much better use for it than simply gathering dust. 

He takes the stairs and exits out into a cloudless, cool night. Even under the flickering orange light of the towering streetlight at the other end of the parking lot, when Stiles glances up at the sky, he can stars spilling across the vast expanse of darkness, like gemstones on a black dress. As he walks along the side of the building, he finds himself glancing around. There are shadows everywhere; behind and underneath the cars in the parking lot, in the dark eyes of the windows marching up the side of the building, on the other side of the street outside the reach of the streetlights. Any one of the shadows is deep enough to hide a wannabe werewolf, someone with metal fangs and claws, someone just waiting to rip out his throat. 

He glances around a few more times, shrugs, hefts the bag further up his shoulder, and continues around to the back of the building. If there really _is_ someone hiding in the shadows waiting to kill him, there’s nothing he can do about it now. 

He rounds the building, walks past the rank smelling dumpsters, and keeps going. The lot that the building backs onto has been stuck in development hell for years; there was a chain link fence separating the lots at one point, but it’s long since been trampled into the knee-high scrub grass, and it crunches underneath Stiles’ feet as he continues further into the lot, detouring around crumbling piles of concrete blocks and other construction materials. Rusted pieces of rebar protrude from the ground like stalagmites, tetanus shots waiting to happen. There’s a barrel sitting alone in the middle of the lot, its surface pockmarked with holes and rust spots. It’s often used as a gathering spot for the local transient population but, for once, it’s abandoned, and Stiles dumps his clothes inside, stuffing pieces of paper in at various spots, saving a few for ignition purposes. 

The clothes almost fill the barrel. While tufts of fabric poke out of the holes in the sides, Stiles lets them be; he’s not going to risk slicing his fingers open. He throws the garbage bag on top, pops the cap off the bottle of vodka, and thumbs it to the side. The smell is exactly what he expected; like the aftermath of a frat boy party, sharp enough to clean his sinuses out. After a moment of consideration, he takes a swig from the bottle and immediately regrets it. It burns down his throat to his empty stomach, and he immediately thinks about throwing it back up. Somehow, he keeps it down, and he empties the rest of the bottle into the barrel and whips it off into the distance, where it smashes with a musical tinkling of glass. 

He touches the flame from the lighter to an old piece of newspaper, which immediately catches alight. He drops it into the barrel, but not soon enough; he singes the ends of his fingers, hisses and sticks them into his mouth. 

They taste like vodka and Derek.

He doesn’t know which taste he hates more.

The pile catches quickly; flames start jumping above the rim of the barrel, spurting through the holes in the side. Stiles takes half a dozen cautious steps back and crosses his arms. The chill in the air is quickly vanished; sweat starts beading on the back of his neck and along his hairline. The air reeks of scorched fabric, is sharp with burning alcohol, and Stiles blinks back tears as smoke wafts into his face. 

He’s not sure how many dollars’ worth of clothing he just lit up, and he’s not looking forward to shelling out money to replace it all, but there’s no denying that the glow of the fire is beautiful. 

Eventually, the leaping flames drop to be level with the top of the barrel. He can hear the fabric sizzling inside, watches as charred pieces float up into the air, caught on the wind. Some of them quickly disappear from sight; others land in the grass around him and with every one that does, he expects another fire to start. 

He stays until the fire has burned to coals, sizzling and popping against the hot metal. While sweat continues to drip down his neck, he waits for another sensation, waits for the hairs on his arm and nape to rise, indicating that someone is watching him. 

The feeling never comes, and he eventually trudges back to his building. There’s no one rummaging through the dumpsters, and the parking lot is silent and empty. Not a single car passes as he makes his way to the front door. 

When he gets back to his apartment, he opens the fridge with the intention of grabbing a beer, and only stops to glance over at the time on the microwave, the numbers glowing green in the dark of his kitchen. It’s already after three o’clock in the morning. It’s been hours since Derek left and, in only a few more hours, he’ll have to return to work and start properly sorting through all of the shit that has happened in the last twenty-four hours. There’s probably going to be a hearing at some point, maybe even two; one regarding the death of a suspect in custody, the other regarding the attack on his informant. It’s the latter that Stiles is least looking forward to; it’s not going to take the investigators from Internal Affairs a lot of digging to find evidence that Isaac was more than just an informant to him, and Stiles is pretty sure that he’s going to get _eviscerated_ in those interviews. 

But he’ll worry about that later. For now, he needs to try and get some sleep. 

He grabs the beer from the fridge, pops the cap into the filthy sink, and collapses back onto the couch. Yet another Western is playing, but he recognizes this one from his childhood. His dad was always a big John Wayne fan. 

He drinks a third of the beer in one fell swoop. He’s sure that someone has already called his father to fill him in on what happened with Isaac and Aiden, and he’s amazed that his father hasn’t called _him_. Maybe he’ll be at the station when he arrives in the morning. 

Stiles isn’t looking forward to that discussion either. 

And then there’s the Derek problem. 

He doesn’t even know where to begin with _that_. 

He finishes off his beer during the next commercial break and, with a churning stomach, passes out.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next few chapters are fairly short ones, so I'll try to upload them fairly quick!

Somehow, Stiles manages to drag himself off the couch mere moments after his alarm goes off. He sweeps half the things on his coffee table onto the floor in the process, but fuck it; the living room is already a disaster. He quickly dresses, makes no attempt to coordinate his tie with his shirt, and dashes out the door while stuffing his phone and wallet into the pocket of his trousers. 

He stops at the gas station just down the road from the station to fill up his tank and himself, and when he rolls into work tightly clutching a huge coffee and a paper bag stuffed with pastries, he’s exactly on time. The bullpen is chattering with activity, filled with detectives babbling on the phone or consuming tar-thick coffee of their own. There’s no sign of Derek, and Stiles drops by his cubicle to see if he’s gotten any important messages over the last few days. Unsurprisingly, all of them can wait, so he hangs up on his voicemail and absently glances into Parrish’s cubicle. It’s fussily neat, everything squared off and in its exact place, but Parrish is not in it, so Stiles shrugs and heads into the conference room. 

He pauses just inside the door. The place has been significantly tidied up. The walls have been left alone, but the pieces of yarn that were starting to droop have been shored up again, firmly taped against the wall. The boxes are stacked in neat piles, rather than the swaying towers that Stiles originally placed them in, and all of Stiles’ notes that he had scribbled on the table have been erased and copied out on long pieces of paper that are also taped up to the walls. The garbage scattered around the room, mainly coffee cups, has vanished, and the air smells thickly floral, the kind of artificial scent that can only be from air freshener. 

Before he can step further into the room, long fingers wrap around his shoulders and spin him around. 

“It’s about time you got here,” Derek says. He’s freshly shaven, sharp cheekbones pressing against his skin, and his hair has been slicked back away from his forehead, but there are heavy purple bags under his eyes and his mouth is set in a deep scowl. 

“I’m right on time,” Stiles snaps indignantly, following Derek out of the room after he lets go of Stiles’ shoulders. “Did you even sleep? I think I look better than you for once.” Derek doesn’t respond; he simply strides right out of the bullpen. As they exit into the lobby, Stiles can’t help but glance down the hallway in the direction of the interrogation rooms. 

He wonders who got the shitty job of hosing the place down after Aiden ripped his own throat out. 

“Where the hell are we going?” he asks as they step out into the cool morning. 

“Morgue,” Derek answers, tugging the collar of his jacket up higher. “We have to see the body that Aiden brought out of the woods.” 

“We got an ID yet?”

“Not yet, but I grabbed the folder with our photos. It’s probably one of our street kids.” 

“Probably.” 

The morgue is only a twenty minute drive away, but it feels like two hours. Derek doesn’t say a word, doesn’t stop scowling and doesn’t drop his hand to Stiles’ knee. Stiles doesn’t say anything, but he keeps watching from the corner of his eye, waiting for Derek’s demeanor to change, for a wall to drop. It feels like time has been rolled back a few weeks, back to the first time they were forced to share a car together, and it’s so _baffling_ that he has no idea how to react.

By the time he’s drank half of his still piping hot coffee, they’ve arrived at the morgue, and it doesn’t feel _right_ to try to talk about whatever the fuck happened between them when they’re surrounded by death. The morgue is silent, quiet enough that a pin dropping would echo for hours, and their footsteps ring off the walls as they walk to the main examination room. There are three bodies resting on three metal tables, but the one closest to the door is the only one Stiles is interested in. 

“Fourteen or fifteen years old,” the coroner says, handing them a file. “Cause of death was blood loss.” 

“From what?” Derek asks, approaching the body. A y-scar of stitches marches down the center of its chest, surrounded by mottled purple skin. The coroner carefully grasps the corpse’s shoulders and turns it onto one side. The back is a darker red color, from blood pooling, but it’s still easy enough to make out the triskelion at the base of the neck. This one is not surrounded by the charred skin Stiles has to come to expect; rather, there’s dried blood surrounding the spirals, and the edges are rougher. The lines of the wound are thin, but they’re gouged into the skin deep enough that Stiles can see a hint of spinal cord peeking out. 

When the coroner returns the body to its previous resting position, Stiles turns his attention to the wrists and ankles. Livid purple marks encircle both of them, the wounds sunk deep into the skin. 

“Ligatures?” he asks, leaning closer, breathing exclusively through his mouth. 

“Rope,” the coroner replies. “I pulled some fibers and sent them off for tests.” Stiles nods and stands back up straight, catches Derek’s eye over the table. 

“This is different,” Derek says. “There’s no defensive wounds, no sign that he was involved in the fights at all. And no burn marks.” 

“Maybe he wasn’t a real initiate. This feels more like a message than anything.”

“Was there anything else that stood out?” Derek asks, turning to the coroner. The coroner shakes his head and tugs the sheet up a little higher. 

“Nothing. No sexual assault, no other significant wounds. Underweight for his age and height, but that would correspond with living on the streets.” Somewhere down the hallway, a phone starts faintly ringing, and the coroner excuses himself. Once he’s stepped out of the room, Derek flips open the folder of photos and lays it flat on the nearest empty counter. Stiles crowds close to him, until their shoulders are brushing together, and part of him expects Derek to step away, brush him off.

He doesn’t move. 

After flipping through five photos, they find their victim. Death has contorted his features, but not to the point of being unrecognizable. Both the body and the boy in the picture have sandy blonde hair, an upturned nose, and four piercings in the left ear.

“Brennan,” Derek sighs, reading the name on the back of the picture. “He was fourteen.” 

“I’ll get Parrish to tell Isaac,” Stiles says, scrubbing his hands over his face. 

“Why not do it yourself?” Derek’s voice has a bite to it that makes Stiles’ guard go up, makes his nails dig into his palms. 

“He doesn’t want to see me again,” he replies curtly, snatching the folder off the counter. Derek just nods and takes one last glimpse at the corpse. 

“We should check on our other informants,” he says. “Let them know to keep their guard up, at the very least.” 

“And Irving,” Stiles adds, leading the way out of the room and back into the long, silent hallway. “If those fuckers have been watching us for as long as Aiden said, they might know that we went to visit him.” It seems like that day was forever ago. It’s hard for him to believe that Derek has been in life for weeks, and they’re _still_ dancing around each other. 

But the dance will have to continue for a while longer. Right now, he has more important things to focus on, like the possibility that Malia or one of his other informants, maybe even Mrs. Gutierrez, is in danger. Maybe they’ve even gone after Isaac again, although Stiles is willing to concede that that would be ballsy, even for a bunch of moon-worshipping freaks. 

They make their calls from the hood of the Camaro, sitting side by side; Derek stretches his legs out, while Stiles braces his on the front bumper. Stiles starts with Parrish, who thankfully doesn’t ask why he’s been assigned the task of informing Isaac about Brennan’s death. Before he hangs up, he asks Parrish to retrieve the number they have listed for Irving Welsh. It takes him a few moments but when he eventually comes back with it, Stiles scrawls the number on the back of his hand with a sputtering pen. After that, he calls Malia. He doesn’t expect her to pick up but, for once, the call doesn’t go to voicemail. He quickly confirms that she’s okay and asks her to go into town to check on Liam. When he hangs up, he glances at Derek, who is tapping his phone off his palm and frowning at the ground. 

“What’s up?” 

“Erica and Boyd didn’t answer.”

“Is that strange?” After a moment, Derek shakes his head. 

“Not really,” he replies. “I’ll try to call them later. Any luck with you?” 

“Managed to get hold of Malia. She said that she hasn’t seen anything weird, and she’s going to go check on Liam. Parrish is on his way to the hospital to tell Isaac, and he gave us Irving’s number.” Stiles holds up his hand, and Derek squints at the number. He dials it with one hand, thumbing confidently at the keys, while he wraps the other around Stiles’ wrist, right where the bone presses against the skin. It doesn’t _mean_ anything, not on its own, but the fact that Derek is touching him at all is remarkable, considering the no nonsense, all business manner he’s been throwing around all morning. 

Yet the _truly_ remarkable part comes a few moments later, after Derek is done dialing and presses the phone against his ear. He lets go of Stiles’ wrist but only so that he can thread his thick fingers between Stiles’, slotting them there like he’s been doing it for years. 

Stiles’ mouth opens and closes a number of times, but before he can figure out what to say, Derek speaks.

“May I speak to Irving Welsh?” he asks, his perfect customer service voice taking over so quickly that it almost makes Stiles gag. However, almost immediately, a frown twists across his mouth. “Excuse me? I’m Detective Derek Hale with the California Bureau of Investigation. Who am I speaking to?” Long moments of silence pass, and Derek’s frown grows deeper and deeper, until his mouth drops open into a shocked _oh_. 

“What is it?” Stiles mouths, but Derek just shakes his head and squeezes his fingers tightly. 

“When was that? Okay, we should be there in a few hours. Okay. Goodbye.” He hangs up and immediately curses under his breath, fingers of his free hand flexing against his cell phone. 

“What is it?” Stiles asks again, fishing his hand away from Derek’s grasp. Derek shoves a hand through his slicked back hair, tugs it into an unruly mess. 

“That was the local police department. Irving was murdered last night. Torn apart by the sounds of it.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Stiles groans, resisting the urge to slam his fist into the hood of the car. He’d been pretty neutral on Irving overall, but that doesn’t mean he wanted him to die. 

They may not have been the ones who ripped him to shreds but, even indirectly, they’re still responsible for his death. 

“You feeling up for a road trip?” 

“Do I have a choice?” 

“Not really,” Derek replies, opening the driver’s side door, and Stiles slides into the passenger seat. His coffee is resting in the cup holder between the seats, and he picks it up, sloshing the now lukewarm contents around.

“Fine,” he mutters. “But I’m going to need more coffee.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that we've come across bodies a few times in this fic so far, but warning for this chapter for pretty graphic corpse description!

They stop at a gas station by the interstate to pick up coffee and snacks for the road, since the next time they get a chance to eat could be hours away. Stiles loads up on beef jerky and nuts, throws in an energy drink for good measure, and by the time he gets everything loaded up, Derek is back in the driver’s seat, fishing chunks of what looks like dried apricot from a plastic bag. 

“You actually like that crap?” Stiles says, dropping his bag of supplies into the foot well and replacing the empty coffee cup in the drink holder with his now full one. 

“Healthier than the junk you have,” Derek retorts, popping another piece of fruit in his mouth before folding the bag up and tucking it into the storage compartment in the driver’s side door. 

“Don’t know about that,” Stiles replies, tearing open his bag of jerky. “Heard that dehydrating the fruit takes out all the nutrients.” Derek issues a monosyllabic grunt in response and turns the car back on, directs them out of the parking lot and onto the interstate. 

The first twenty minutes of the two hour drive to Irving’s place pass by in absolute silence. Not even the radio crackles. It takes that long for Stiles to finish the bag of jerky, but as soon as that distraction is gone, the weight of the silence fully drops onto his shoulders. The coffee fails to distract him; if anything, the caffeine swarming through his system just makes everything worse, makes him want to scream just for some kind of stimulation. He waits for Derek to reprimand him, tell him to stop fidgeting, but nothing comes. He simply stays put, face a blank mask. 

Stiles can’t take it any longer. 

He clears his throat three times before Derek finally glances over at him, one eyebrow raised, fingers wrapped tight around the steering wheel. 

“What?” 

“We ever going to talk about last night?” 

“What is there to talk about?” Stiles’ mouth flaps a number of times before he finally thinks of a retort. 

“I’m sorry, was it _not_ you that came all over my stomach last night? Did I just imagine that?” 

“Your imagination isn’t _that_ good.” There’s a hint of color swarming through Derek’s cheeks, reaching all the way up his ears. “What do you want? An acknowledgement? We had sex. There. It’s acknowledged.” 

“Technically, that wasn’t sex, but-” 

“It was for me,” Derek snaps, and Stiles tracks the bob of his throat as he swallows heavily. “But that doesn’t mean anything. Sex with Isaac didn’t mean anything to you, right?” 

“It’s not exactly the same situation,” Stiles mutters. Sex with Isaac had felt good, and it was commitment free. Sex with Derek had definitely felt physically good, but it hadn’t been emotionally void. There was _something_ more than just sexual tension connected to it, something that Stiles doesn’t have a name for, but it’s something nevertheless.

“It’s close enough. We can just call it stress relief. Alright?” Derek's nostrils flare on the last word, and his fingers are wrapped so tightly around the steering wheel that Stiles can see the ligaments in the back of his hands standing out, pressing up against his skin. It sounds so much like a response Stiles would give that he has to blink a few times, just to make sure it’s still Derek sitting beside him. “Now stop thinking about it. We can’t afford to be distracted today.” On that note, he takes one hand away from the wheel, grabs his phone from the pocket of his trousers, and drops it into Stiles’ lap. 

“What am I supposed to do with this?” 

“Try and call Erica and Boyd again. The password is Cora.” Stiles types the password in, navigates to Derek’s contacts and scrolls until he finds Erica & Boyd, saved together as one contact. He calls the number and, after six rings, the call goes straight to automated voicemail. 

“No answer,” he says, sliding the phone into the second, unused cup holder. Derek’s jaw tightens. 

“If they’re just not answering because they don’t feel like it, I’m going to kill them,” he mutters. 

“Maybe they’re just having sex,” Stiles says, trying to inject the moment with levity. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t work; Derek just glares at him for a moment, and Stiles has to resist throwing his hands up in surrender. Instead, he just shrugs, stretches his legs out, and turns his attention back to his coffee. 

They’re still an hour and a half away from Irving’s place.

Stiles lasts all of ten minutes before he has to break the silence again. 

“You aren’t like Isaac,” he says, his gaze directed out the window at the billboards and scenery whipping by. “It’s not the same.” It doesn’t come anywhere close to what he _actually_ means, but the fact is that he doesn’t have the words to actually describe what he means, to describe how he actually feels about Derek. He resolutely forces himself to keep looking out the window, doesn’t even sneak a peek at Derek’s expression. 

In response, Derek drops his hand to Stiles’ leg, right above his knee. 

“Okay,” he replies, tone impossible to read. 

Still, Stiles can’t help but count it as _some_ kind of victory. 

&.

The rest of the ride is mostly silent, and while it’s not exactly free of tension, it’s still easier for Stiles to breathe. At one point, Derek even turns on the radio, tunes it to a rock station. He keeps the volume down low, but it still gives Stiles something else to focus on. He can beat out the tune of the song on his knee, rather than try to stop his thoughts from chasing each other and multiplying. 

By the time they make it to Irving’s, it’s just before noon. The sun has finally peeked out from behind the clouds, and its rays illuminate every leaf lining the trees on the narrow road leading up to Irving’s driveway. As they round a corner, they’re faced with three patrol cars parked along the side of the road. There’s a uniformed officer standing in the center of the road, and as they draw even with him, Derek rolls down the window. 

“Detectives Hale and Stilinski, CBI,” he says, holding his badge out. “Detective Randall is expecting us.” After a moment, the office nods and passes Derek’s badge back through the window.

“You’ll have to park along here somewhere,” he says. “Not enough room for everyone to turn around up in that driveway.” 

“Don’t we know it,” Stiles mumbles under his breath as Derek nods and rolls the window back up. Once the officer has moved out of the way, he pulls ahead and to the side, parking with the passenger side wheels nearly in the ditch. 

The walk up Irving’s rutted driveway seems to take an inordinate amount of time, and Stiles keeps his eyes peeled the entire time, looking for anybody hiding in the trees, any potential booby traps like the ones that had surrounded Kincaid’s cabin. 

But it doesn’t feel the same as the last time they visited. On that occasion, the feeling that someone was watching them had been absolutely visceral. This time, there’s nothing; the only thing that raises the hairs on the back of Stiles’ neck is the wind.

When they finally reach the clearing where Irving’s driveway terminates, they emerge into a swarm of activity. There are four vehicles parked in a semicircle at the end of the drive: another patrol car, two panel vans that probably belong to crime scene technicians, and a morgue van. There’s an officer waiting for them on the porch, and he approaches them as they cross the clearing. 

“Officer Pratchett told me you were walking in,” he says. “I’m Detective Randall.” 

“I’m Detective Stilinski. This is Detective Hale, you spoke to him on the phone,” Stiles says. “Have you removed the body yet?” 

“Not yet. We’ve been waiting for you. Hope you’ve got some menthol with you. Place smells horrible.” 

They slide on disposable gloves and shoe coverings and slather menthol from a small tube that Derek pulls from his pocket underneath their nostrils. Even standing on the porch, Stiles can smell rot and decay wafting from the dark interior of the house. 

The place is even more chaotic than it was the first time they visited. Stiles glances into the kitchen as they walk down the hallway and, even through the menthol, the smell of rotting food is overwhelming. The counters and table are covered in a thick layer of grime and dust, and the sink is piled high with unwashed dishes. There are two technicians examining the area, but the living room seems to be the main hive of activity. No less than three technicians are wandering around the perimeter of the room, picking up evidence with tweezers and snapping photos with a large camera swathed in plastic. Two more are crouched in the center of the room, and as they approach them, the scent of blood and offal makes Stiles’ stomach churn. 

There’s not much left of Irving; Stiles is pretty sure that they’re going to have to scrape him off the floor when it comes time to take him to the morgue. His head is tilted back against the ground at an unnatural angle, and his throat is a gaping black hole of shredded tissue and dried blood. His chest cavity has been ripped open; his ribs are cracked and splayed apart, and the remnants of his shirts lay spread at his side like tattered wings. The organs that are supposed to reside underneath his rib cage have vanished, leaving behind a slimy cavity of gore and flesh. The carpet underneath the body is sodden with blood, and arterial sprays and bits of gore seem to cling to every surface in the nearby vicinity; the walls, the mantle, the glass of every photo sitting on every shelf. 

“Was he alive when this happened?” Derek asks, glancing at the gaping hole in Irving’s chest.

“Not for most of it,” one of the technicians, anonymous in their swathing of white plastic, responds. “The wound in the throat was inflicted first. Both carotid arteries were severed with something incredibly sharp. He would have bled out within seconds.” 

“Any ligature marks?” Stiles asks. 

“Not exactly.” The technician kneels and slides the cuff of Irving’s sweater up to the crook of his elbow. Even against the bloated, mottled flesh, Stiles can still make out a round bruise just above Irving’s wrist. “But there’s one of these on both of his wrists.” 

“Someone’s knees, maybe,” Derek muses aloud. “If they knelt on his wrists, they’d be in the perfect position to tear out his throat.” Even without closing his eyes, Stiles can picture the scene perfectly in his head. While he knows that it probably wasn’t Kali who did it, not with the bullet wounds she’d sustained at Isaac’s, she’s still the person that pops into his head when he pictures the scene. The wound would have spurted like a fountain. Stiles can almost feel the blood splattering against his cheek and throat, dripping into his mouth. 

He firmly shakes the image out of his head before he throws up.

“Did you find anything else out of the ordinary?” he asks, turning his gaze away from the body for a moment. 

“There was a foreign object in the chest cavity. Roberto!” One of the technicians scraping gore off the wall puts down his supplies and approaches, pulling a clear evidence bag from the sack around his shoulders. When he twists it around so that the label is no longer in the way, an errant ray of sunlight glints off the metal inside. 

It’s soaked in blood, but Stiles still recognizes it as a metal claw, like the ones in the videos they’d recovered from Kincaid’s. 

“It was embedded in one of the ribs,” the technician continues. When Stiles follows their pointing finger, he can see a distinctive grove in one of the ribs on the left side of Irving’s body. 

“Let us know if you find anything else,” Derek says, glancing sideways at Stiles. Stiles nods in return; they’ve done all they can do, and if they linger too long, they’re bound to end up in a battle over jurisdiction, so they say their goodbyes and return to the front porch, yanking their gloves off with a sharp snap. 

“That was another message,” Stiles says, leaning back against the wall beside the front door. The urge for a cigarette is spreading through him like an insufferable itch, and he digs his fingernails into the meat of his palms. 

“A message for us,” Derek continues. “Do you have people watching Scott?” 

“Yeah. Parrish said they’ll watch him until we call them off.” The corner of Derek’s mouth twitches slightly when Stiles says Parrish’s name, but before Stiles can explore the reaction further, his cell phone starts vibrating against his thigh, and he quickly yanks it out. For half a second, he expects the screen to be showing an unknown number, some kind of taunt from the cult but thankfully, it’s Malia’s name on the screen. 

“Hey,” he answers, stepping over to the other side of the porch, away from the people moving in and out of Irving’s home. “Everything alright?” 

“Yeah,” Malia responds. “Just wanted to let you know that I found Liam and brought him back to the commune with me.” 

“Is he alright?” 

“He’s fine. He won’t stop whining about wanting a smoke though.” 

“I know the feeling,” Stiles mutters. “Give him some if you can find them. I can send people to watch the commune if-“

“No,” Malia snaps, voice crackling into static for a moment. “We’ll be fine. We can take care of ourselves.”

“Fine,” Stiles acquiesces. She’s not wrong; he knows for a fact that, despite the peaceful front they project, Malia’s group possesses more than a few weapons that have slipped through the registration cracks. “But keep an eye out, alright? Stay safe. I’ll talk to you soon.” He ends the call and turns back to face Derek. He’s also holding his cellphone against his ear, and his fingers are wrapped so tightly around the casing that Stiles expects it to shatter at any moment. His mouth is twisted, but not into a frown; it’s more like an expression of pure dismay. 

“What’s up?” he asks once Derek has lowered the phone and shoved it back into his pocket. 

“Erica and Boyd still haven’t answered,” he answers, his hands curled into tight fists at his sides. “It’s not ringing at all anymore. Just keeps going straight to voicemail.” 

“I’m assuming that’s not normal.” 

“Not at all.” 

“Do you have contact numbers for anyone else in their group?” 

“None of them. It’s a miracle I even have theirs.” With that, Derek steps off the porch and starts across the clearing, striding so fast that Stiles has to jog to catch up with him. 

“I’m assuming we’re going on another road trip,” Stiles says, nodding at Detective Randall, who calls back something about sending them test results and reports. Stiles waves a hand to acknowledge the remark.

“We are,” Derek replies. “Something happened to them.”

“Shouldn’t we call the locals?” Stiles asks, nearly tripping over a deep rut in the driveway. “It might save us four hours of driving.” He buries a yawn in the crook of his elbow when he’s done speaking; the caffeine is starting to leave his system, and he can already feel tendrils of exhaustion pulling at the edge of his mind.

“I’m fine with driving,” Derek says curtly. “You can sleep, if you need to. And they won’t let local police on the property without a fight. I can prove that I know them. That should give us some leeway.” 

“I can stay awake,” Stiles says, wiping a bead of sweat off the back of his neck. “But I’m going to need even more coffee. And a bathroom.” Derek’s jaw clenches, but he eventually nods. 

“Fine,” he mutters. “But that’s the only stop we’re making.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a fun drinking game for this fic: drink every time Stiles is in desperate need of caffeine. drink every time the boys find a body. finish your drink whenever we go on a road-trip. 
> 
> (please don't actually try that at home.)


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for another short chapter! but I promise the next one makes up for it, not only because it's way longer, but because it's also one of my favorites!

Stiles doesn’t remember passing out; what he does remember is leaning his head against the strap of his seat-belt just for a moment. At that time, the interstate had been flying by his eyes, a blur of passing vehicles and gaudy billboards, livened up by the occasional glimpse of a forest or field. 

When he jolts awake, there’s drool crusted down his cheek and chin. The view is much the same; the only difference is that the shadows have lengthened, and the sun is hanging lower in the sky, streaming through the windshield and directly into his eyes. He squints, flips down the sun visor, and takes a swig of his icy cold coffee.

“How close are we?” he asks, scratching flakes of dried saliva from his skin. 

“About forty minutes out,” Derek replies. Without removing his eyes from the road, he cranes over the console and pops open the glove compartment. “There should be wipes in there. For your face.” 

“Thanks,” Stiles mutters, ripping a wipe from the package and smearing it across his face. It actually makes him feel more like a human being and less like a trash heap that’s been shoved into pants, and he tosses it into the rapidly filling bag of garbage tucked at his feet. “Did you try calling them again?”

“Three times. Went to voicemail each time.” Derek looks even more exhausted; the bags under his eyes have gotten larger, and his eyes themselves are cloudy, almost rheumy looking. 

“I can drive if you want,” Stiles offers. “If you want to get some sleep.” 

“I can’t sleep. Not until I know what happened to them,” Derek says quietly. He sounds so _young_ , so full of pain, and before Stiles can really think through the action or attempt to talk himself out of doing it, he slides over in his seat and drops his hand to Derek’s knee. Derek jolts slightly, and his eyes leave the road just long enough to glance at Stiles with a questioning eyebrow. In response, Stiles squeezes tightly and, after a moment, Derek switches hands on the wheel and drops his right hand on top of Stiles’. 

“We’re gonna find them,” Stiles says, hoping that he sounds convincing. “Alright?” 

“Alright,” Derek says softly, squeezing Stiles’ hand just on the right side of too tight. 

A few minutes later, they pull off of the interstate and start making their way down the back roads that lead to the commune. Stiles breaks into another bag of his gas station snacks, using his teeth to tear it open. 

He doesn’t take his hand away from Derek’s knee. 

By the time they pull into the clearing where they met Erica and Boyd, the road is cloaked in shadows. The sun is hovering just above the treeline, and there’s already a discernible chill in the air. At a quick glance, everything looks the same. The commune’s vehicles are still parked in their loose circle, and the amount of leaves and twigs laying on their hoods and trunks seems to indicate that, legally registered or not, most of them haven’t moved in quite some time. However, when Stiles clambers from the passenger side, he immediately notices deep tire tracks cutting through the center of the clearing, ending just before the huge gate blocking off the path leading into the woods. The gate itself is slightly ajar.

“Someone was here,” Stiles points out, but his words strike Derek’s already retreating back. He practically bolts across the clearing, like a bullet shot from a gun, and slips through the open gate. Stiles races after him across the uneven ground, hoping like hell that he doesn’t step in some kind of rodent hole and twist his ankle.

Thankfully, the path is only about as long as Irving’s driveway and, like his driveway, it terminates in another clearing. This one, however, is far larger than the one that had contained his house and, parts of it at least, are definitely man-made. Low stumps litter the edges, surrounded by heaping piles of brush. At least a dozen sizable yurts dot the clearing, with a few larger structures mixed in for good measure. The wood used to create the structures is nearly the color of gold, and some of the yurts have been decorated with expansive, colorful murals celebrating the sun.

He doesn’t plan on moving into the place anytime soon but still, Stiles can’t deny that the place emanates good vibes. 

Most of the activity seems to be structured in the center of the clearing; Stiles can hear what sounds like singing or chanting, rising and falling in volume. However, there’s at least one person hasn’t joined the party; there’s an older man sitting on a folding lawn chair only a few feet away from them. There’s a beaming smile stretching across his face, his eyes are closed, and his face is upturned toward the descending sun. 

“You!” Derek yells, crossing the space in only a few steps. Immediately, the man’s smile is wiped clean, and he sits up straight and drops his hand to his hip. It’s impossible to tell from the angle, but Stiles wouldn’t be surprised if there was a blade tucked into the back of his loose trousers. 

“Who are you?” he asks, voice hard and sharp with suspicion. 

“We’re with the California Bureau of Investigation,” Stiles says, just managing to fit the disclaimer in before Derek talks over him. 

“Where are Erica and Boyd?”

“Who?” Stiles knows that the man is just playing dumb, but the way Derek’s eyes flash indicates that he’s not thinking straight, and Stiles reaches forward and seizes his shoulder, tugs him backwards before he can do something hopelessly stupid, something that will totally cut off their access to the commune. 

“He knows them,” Stiles says to the man, digging his fingers tighter into Derek’s flesh and hoping that he gets the message. It seems to work; some of the tension drains from Derek’s shoulders.

“They’re my informants,” Derek says, fishing his badge from his pocket and passing it to the man. “They met me in the clearing a few days ago about a local moon cult in the area. I know they would have told someone who they were meeting.” The man takes all the time in the world reviewing Derek’s badge, to the point that Stiles is nearly ready to jump across the space between them and punch him in the face. Thankfully, he eventually tosses it back, nearly catching Derek in the shoulder. 

“Yeah, they told us about you,” he says, hand slowly sliding away from his hip. “But I haven’t seen them all day. I just assumed they came down with something. There’s been a cold going around.” 

“What yurt is theirs?” Derek asks. 

“It’s down there,” the man says, pointing off to his right. “Can’t miss it. Their names are painted on the side of it. Are they alright?”

Derek doesn’t answer; he simply bolts away, and Stiles runs after him. They pass by four yurts before Derek comes skidding to a stop. Erica and Boyd’s yurt is tucked close to the treeline, so close that an overhanging branch is actually resting on their roof. Like the old man said, their names are painted on the side of the building in bright yellow cursive font, the edges outlined with sparkling gold paint. There’s a screen door marking the entrance, but darkness gapes behind that, and when Stiles reaches the three slightly uneven steps leading up into the yurt, he realizes that the handle has been ripped almost completely off the door. Before Derek opens it, he yanks a pair of latex gloves from the inside of his jacket and snaps them on. Stiles fumbles his own pair on as he follows Derek inside.

They enter into a main living space. There are windows dotting the yurt’s walls, but the light coming through them is muted by heavy curtains. While it seems silent inside and the air is stuffy, like it hasn’t been stirred for hours, Stiles still carefully pulls his gun from his holster. He sidesteps to the nearest window and, with a quick jerk, yanks the curtain open. On the opposite side of the doorway, Derek does the same thing. They continue along the perimeter until they’re at the wall that partitions the living room from the other rooms. There’s two sliding doors set into the wall, and Stiles moves towards the closest. Derek mirrors his move on the other side and, when their eyes meet, he nods and raises his gun higher. 

Stiles nods as well, reaches for the handle jutting from the wood, and pulls with all his might. The door flies open, wobbling slightly on its tracks, and he keeps himself pressed against the wall, waiting for someone to shoot or leap through the doorway. After ten seconds of inactivity, he catches Derek’s eye again, and they both proceed through their respective doors. 

Stiles finds himself stepping into the bedroom. It’s a fairly small space; trinkets crowd the numerous shelves that have been installed on the walls and clothes, most of them appearing to be Erica’s, litter the floor like weeds. However, the room is more than merely messy; it’s chaotic. It’s obvious that things have been stirred, knocked out of their proper places. Some of the shelves have gaps where some kind of trinket is meant to be, and when Stiles glances at the ground, he finds matching piles of shattered glass and porcelain on the floor. The curtains are hanging askew, and when Stiles steps closer to the disheveled bed (which takes up half the room), he notices a splotch of dark blood staining one of the yellow pillowcases. 

“Derek!” he yells. He can hear Derek’s footsteps as he leaves what is presumably the bathroom and comes around the dividing wall. 

“Anything in here?” he asks. Stiles nods and uses his gun to gesture at the stain of blood. Derek grimaces and holsters his gun, prompting Stiles to do the same.

“Was there anything in the bathroom?”

“No. They were probably ambushed while they were sleeping.” Derek steps out of the room and turns his back, squares his shoulders. 

“Probably.” Stiles takes a quick look around the room, looking for anything else that might be relevant. There might be some hairs or DNA on the sheets that they can test, but somehow, he doubts it. Sure, they may have left a claw behind at the other crime scene, at Irving’s place, but this isn’t just a message; this is a _goad_. If the attack on Isaac was meant to disarm Stiles, this is very much aimed at doing the same to Derek. 

It seems to be working. 

“We have to bring in the locals now,” Stiles says, stepping back into the living room. It’s obvious that the struggle continued out here; the carpets laid across the floor have been kicked around, exposing paler squares of wood, and two of the chairs grouped around the kitchen table have been knocked over. 

“I know,” Derek says. Abruptly, his foot lashes out and knocks over another chair. His fingers curl and uncurl at his sides and, before he can last out again and possibly taint some evidence, Stiles crosses over and grabs his wrist. 

“C’mon,” he says, pulling Derek towards the door. “You get in touch with the locals. I’ll go break the news to the rest of these weirdos that two of their own have been kidnapped under their noses.” 

“Maybe don’t say it exactly like that,” Derek mutters. 

“Maybe if I say it like that, they’ll smarten the fuck up,” Stiles retorts, knocking the door closed behind them. “I’ll be right back.” 

He finds the rest of the commune members gathered in the middle of the clearing, standing in a circle around a large fire pit. There’s no fire burning as of yet, but whatever they’re doing seems to be pretty important; they’re clasping hands and their heads are tilted back towards the sky, eyes closed, faces split by broad smiles. 

It was kind of charming when it was just the old man doing it, but seeing two dozen people doing it all at the same time is just fucking creepy, like something out of a goddamn horror movie, and Stiles is more than happy to break it up. He clears his throat first, but that doesn’t break any of them from their stupor, so he switches tactics. 

“Hey!” he hollers. 

That does the trick; heads snap back down, hands drop away from hands, and more than a few of the commune members spin around, fingers flying for their hips. A number of them have black handles protruding from the waistbands of their trousers and skirts, and Stiles doesn’t know if it’s actually a ritual thing or if they’re just obsessed with knives, but he really wishes that Derek would have mentioned something about it earlier. 

“Who are you?”

“Save it,” Stiles snaps. “Detective Stilinski, California Bureau of Investigation, and here’s a fun fact: two of your people have been kidnapped by a bunch of moon worshipping freaks. This place is now a crime scene.” 

“But-“

“No,” he interrupts. The urge to pull his gun from his holster, just to speed things along, is nearly irresistible. It’s been one of the longest goddamn days of his life, and there’s still no end in sight; he’ll be damned if he spends more than a few seconds of it fighting with the commune. “I don’t care what your beliefs about outsiders are. My partner is bringing in the local police department. I’m sure they’re going to want to ask some of you questions, like how _none_ of you heard Erica and Boyd being abducted. And if we find out that any of you had something to do with it, rest assured, your ass is going to end up in jail. Do you all understand?” 

Not a single person responds; a few of them are expressionless, but most of them just have their mouths set in grim lines, like they’re forcing themselves to bite back words. None of them look anywhere close to being happy to accept Stiles’ terms and conditions.

Frankly, he doesn’t give a fuck. Keeping people happy isn’t in his job description. 

“Alright,” he says. “Go back to whatever you were doing. Cops should be here soon.”


	17. Chapter 17

The next few hours fly by in a blur. 

Technicians comb every inch of Erica and Boyd's yurt for strange fibers, hairs or fingerprints, while Stiles and Derek focus on helping the locals interview the other members of the commune. None of them heard anything strange the previous night, and while some of them say that it _was_ strange that Erica and Boyd didn’t show up for any of their daily rituals, they offer dozens of different excuses for not going to check up on them. 

_I thought they were just sick._

_I thought they just wanted some alone time._

_I thought they went into town for some reason._

By the time Stiles finishes up his interviews, Derek is already done. He’s leaning against the side of Erica and Boyd’s yurt with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, head tilted back against the wall, eyes closed. He looks as exhausted as Stiles feels, and when Stiles nudges him with his foot, his eyes flutter open slowly, like they’re being weighed down with lead. 

“We should head back soon,” he says. Derek shakes his head and opens his mouth to speak, but Stiles just forges ahead. “Look, there’s nothing more that we can do here. Boyd and Erica probably aren’t within twenty miles of here, and the locals can let us know if they find anything useful inside that yurt. What we need to do is get back to Beacon Hills and connect all these dots. We need to find these bastards, and we can’t do that if we're stuck here. Alright?” For a moment, Derek just stares at him blankly, and Stiles has to resist muttering _for fuck’s sake_ , because he is _not_ repeating his entire spiel again. Thankfully, a spark of recognition finally appears on Derek’s face, and he nods and raises one hand to rub at his eyes. 

“You’re right,” he sighs. “Let’s go.” 

The walk back to the Camaro is silent. The moon does a terrible job at cutting through the canopy hanging over the path leading back to where they parked, and Stiles does his best to keep vigilant, to keep his eyes open for anyone hanging out in the trees. Thankfully, they make it back to the car without being accosted and, as Derek digs in his pockets for his keys, he sways slightly on his feet. Stiles has _never_ seen the guy so visibly tired, and the idea of Derek driving in such a state doesn’t exactly fill him with confidence. 

“Give me those.” He doesn’t bother waiting for Derek to protest; he snatches them directly from Derek’s palm and presses the button to unlock the doors. 

“Stiles, I’m fine.”

“Derek, you’re _not_ fine,” Stiles replies, tossing the words back into his face. “You’re about to pass out standing up.” 

“I probably got more sleep than you last night.” 

“That’s irrelevant,” Stiles says, waving his hand and opening the driver’s door. “You always get more sleep than me. Besides, I still have an energy drink. That’ll keep me running for a few more hours.” 

“Those things taste like garbage.” After a few awkward moments where Stiles is certain he’s going to have to get back out and forcibly pull Derek’s ass into the car, the passenger door opens and he slides in, boots crunching against the bag of Stiles’ garbage in the footwell. 

“You’re not wrong,” Stiles says, turning the car on and holding his hand out. After a moment of rummaging, Derek procures the energy drink and drops it into Stiles’ palm. Stiles pops the can open, takes a breath of preparation, and dumps as much as he can swallow in one go into his mouth. 

Derek _really_ isn’t wrong. The drink is lukewarm and sickly sweet, and while it’s supposed to taste like fruit punch, it tastes nothing like any fruit he’s ever eaten. He can feel it leaving a sticky film on all of his teeth, and he forces himself to swallow as he drops the can into the cup holder. 

“Sure you don’t want a swig?” he asks, shifting the Camaro into drive. 

“Having a caffeine overdose is something I’d rather not experience,” Derek mutters, fiddling with the radio knob. 

“My tolerance levels are way too high for that,” Stiles laughs, pulling out of the clearing and leaving the commune behind for the time being. 

&. 

They make it back to the interstate in record time. Streetlights march away in even lines off into the distance in both directions, like miniature suns pointing the way back to Beacon Hills. Headlights pass by intermittently, but for the most part, the road ahead of them is clear. Stiles pushes the gas pedal down a little further; the Camaro rides infinitely smoother than his own piece of shit car, and if they get pulled over by one of the local cops, he plans on flashing his badge and smooth talking his way out of it. 

He expects Derek to pass out within minutes. However, whenever he glances over, his eyes are still open, and he’s staring aimlessly out the windshield, hands resting in his lap. His leg is jouncing off the floorboards, and he’s gnawing on his lip hard enough that Stiles is surprised that there isn’t blood trickling down his chin. Stiles doesn’t know what to do with him; he’s pretty sure that Derek is too tired to talk, but it also doesn’t look like he’s going to sleep any time soon. 

He decides to wait another twenty minutes. He turns the radio up a little louder, hums along with the eighties rock playing, and tries to keep his gaze away from Derek. 

It’s extremely difficult and, after only five minutes, his resolve slips. He glances back over, fingers drumming against the steering wheel as energy floods his system in waves and discovers that Derek is still awake. His fingers are clenching and loosening in his lap, and he looks downright _tortured_ , like he’s actually watching Boyd and Erica be kidnapped, unable to do anything about it. 

As the road continues to whip by, an idea appears in Stiles’ mind. He’s far from certain that it’s a good idea; in fact, it might just be one of the worst that he’s ever had. But on the other hand, if he doesn’t do _something_ about Derek soon, the man is either going to start pulling his own hair out or fall into an all-out panic attack, and Stiles is pretty sure that’s something he can’t handle while stationary, let alone when they’re blowing down the highway at eighty miles an hour. 

He keeps an eye on the brightly painted signs on the side of the highway, announcing upcoming turnoffs and tourist attractions. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to wait long; after another five minutes, one blares that there’s a rest station at the next turnoff. If Derek notices anything is amiss, he shows no sign; he just keeps staring out the windshield. The exit appears half a minute later, and Stiles merges across four lanes to take it, leaving the neat rows of streetlights behind as the smooth asphalt changes to pitted asphalt. The rocking as the tires bump over a number of potholes is what finally gets Derek’s attention. 

“Where are we?” he asks, sitting up straight and gazing around. Stiles doesn’t answer. There’s another sign, this one slightly faded, announcing the rest stop right up ahead, and he flicks on the turn signal and pulls to the right.

He’s not sure if _rest station_ is really the right moniker for the place. It’s more like a large parking lot, and the paint separating the parking spaces as faded as the sign announcing the place, all of it covered in a fine layer of dirt. There are two streetlights illuminating the place in sickly orange light, one located towards the road and the other beside the concrete bunker containing the bathrooms. Both of them flicker unsteadily every few seconds, long past their prime. There’s a transport truck parked on the other side of the lot, but Stiles pays it no mind; he’s sure that the driver won’t be stirring for a few more hours, and he only needs a few minutes (hopefully) to accomplish what he needs to do. 

“Stiles, where are we?” Derek asks again as Stiles pulls into a spot as far away from the road and bathrooms as possible. 

“Rest stop,” Stiles answers, pulling the keys from the ignition. “C’mon. Get out.” He doesn’t bother waiting for an answer; he cracks open the door, steps out into the night, and pops out a kink in his neck as he waits for the passenger door to creak open. Finally, it does, although Derek doesn’t move far; after closing the door, he simply leans back against the side of the car and drops his head back. When Stiles circles around, the first thing he notices is that Derek’s fists are clenched again, balled into fists at his side. He looks strung tight as a piano wire, like he’ll snap and draw blood the instant he’s touched, but Stiles doesn’t bother approaching him cautiously; he settles beside him, close enough for their shoulders to brush together. 

“I thought you were going to try and get some sleep,” he says, tilting his own head back towards the sky. 

“I tried,” Derek replies, voice thick with exhaustion. “But all I can think about is Erica and Boyd. How it’s my fault.” 

“How the fuck is it your fault?” 

“Maybe if we’d gone earlier in the day, the trail would have been easier to pick up. Maybe-“

“Alright, look,” Stiles interjects, stepping away from the car and spinning around so that he’s standing directly in front of Derek. “Enough. All this whining, this whole feeling sorry for yourself act? It isn’t helping, and it isn’t _you_.” 

“Don’t you think that it was your fault that Isaac was attacked?” 

Stiles doesn’t _think_ that it was his fault that Isaac was attacked; he _knows_ that it was. It was his fault for not giving Isaac more protection, for dragging him back into the mess over and over again, and if Scott and Kira are attacked, he knows that will be his fault too. But he’s used to working through that kind of guilt. Derek, on the other hand, obviously isn’t, and if he doesn’t get his head back on straight, the case is going to collapse. 

“No,” he finally says. “It wasn’t my fault. It’s the fault of those fanatics. _They’re_ the ones you should be blaming, alright? They’re the ones we need to stop. But we can’t do that if we’re too busy throwing a pity party for ourselves. So I’m going to make you stop worrying.” 

“Really,” Derek says flatly, raising a thick eyebrow. “How?” 

Stiles surges forward and kisses him, placing his hands on either side of Derek’s shoulders for balance. He doesn’t try to go any further, and by the time he pulls back, Derek hasn’t responded. He just blinks a few times, lips parted slightly, slick with Stiles’ saliva. 

“What was that?” he finally asks. 

“That was just the beginning,” Stiles says, trying not to let frustration leak into his voice. “I’m trying to help you. Think of it as stress relief, if that makes you feel any better.” He doesn’t mean to sound so bitter, but the words definitely have some effect; Derek cringes slightly, and his eyes momentarily drop to the ground. “Look, it doesn’t matter right now. Either let me help you or tell me to stop.” Thankfully, only a few seconds of silence pass before Derek nods and brings his gaze back up. He still looks exhausted, but he no longer looks _lost_. 

“Fine. Help me.” 

“Fucking finally,” Stiles mutters, diving back in. This time, he’s blessedly met with a response; Derek’s hands drop to his hips and tug him in closer. Stiles shoves his thigh between Derek’s, and his knee slams painfully into the door, but it means they’re as close as they can possibly be. Derek’s lips part further, and Stiles wastes no time in bringing his tongue into the mix. He’s all too aware that he still probably tastes like the godawful energy drink, but if Derek is bothered by it, he doesn’t say anything. He just gives as good as he gets, brushes his tongue against Stiles’, uses his long fingers to yank Stiles’ shirt out of his waistband, and plunges his hands up underneath, palms smoothing up Stiles’ chest. Stiles bites down on Derek’s lip in a failed attempt at holding back a moan. This is supposed to be for Derek’s benefit, but he’s pretty sure that if they continue in the present vein, he’s going to fall apart quicker than Derek and, frankly, that just won’t do. 

But he’s not entirely willing to pull back just yet. The sheer fact of the matter is that just kissing Derek, touching him, feels _good_ , and while this does nothing to solve the problems still facing them, does nothing to address the question of what exactly happened between them on Stiles’ couch, he’s not going to stop just because they have unresolved issues. 

Even if this just complicates things further, chances are that it’s going to bring Derek’s focus back and, at the moment, that’s the most important thing. 

The next time he pulls back to take a breath, Derek ducks his face into the side of Stiles’ neck and digs his blunt teeth into the base of his throat. This time, Stiles completely fails to bite back a moan; it spills out into the night, and Derek smirks against his skin. 

Apparently, his efforts are working. He recognizes this Derek, likes him a hell of a lot better than the lost little boy hiding in a man that he's been dealing with since they arrived at the commune and found Erica and Boyd missing. 

“You did say you were going to be louder next time,” Derek murmurs, the words washing over Stiles’ jaw as he drags his mouth higher. 

“You’re not wrong,” Stiles admits, tugging down the zipper of Derek’s jacket. “But it’s going to be hard to make noise with my mouth full.” Derek pulls back slightly, until their noses are just barely touching, and Stiles sees hesitation on his face, like he’s honestly thinking of slipping away. Thankfully, it only lasts for a few seconds at most, at which point his smirk comes back in full force, and his blunt thumbnails scrape against Stiles’ hipbones. 

“I’m sure that you’ll still find a way to make some noise." Stiles grins and starts working on the buttons of Derek’s shirt. 

“Me too,” he replies, popping the last button and pushing the halves of the shirt away. Derek isn’t wearing an additional layer underneath, and Stiles takes a moment to drag his fingers from Derek’s collarbone to his navel, lets his fingers brush through the thick covering of dark hair trailing down into Derek’s trousers. 

“If we get caught,” Derek says, licking his lips, “I’m going to say this was your idea.”

“It _was_ my idea,” Stiles says pointedly, sliding one finger under Derek’s waistband. “But I’ll tell them it was yours. You can be the one that loses your job.” 

“Fuck you." Stiles smirks as he leans in closer, nips at Derek’s pulse point as he settles his fingers on Derek’s belt. 

“You _can_ fuck me, one day. Hopefully soon.” 

“I’m going to take you up on that.” 

“Good,” Stiles murmurs, just as Derek’s belt drops loose against the front of his trousers. “Now shut up.” With that, he pops the button and the zipper on Derek’s trousers and drops to the ground. The asphalt underneath his knees is rough, and he’s sure that it’s going to leave bruises of a wholly undesirable kind, but he has definitely fooled around in worse spots. Derek drops one hand to Stiles’ head, pushes it through the wayward strands of hair that have fallen onto his forehead. 

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” he says quietly. 

“I know,” Stiles replies, glancing up through his eyelashes and biting back a sigh as Derek’s fingers scrape over his scalp. “But I want to. Now seriously, shut up.” He hooks his fingers into the waistband of Derek’s trousers and briefs and slides both articles of clothing down to his ankles. Derek splays his legs further apart, and Stiles wraps his long fingers around the curve of his knees. Derek’s thick cock is at eye level with him, very much erect and curving up towards his stomach, and Stiles forces himself to take a deep breath. He’s definitely pictured this, more than a few times, although never in situations exactly like this; most of his fantasies had taken place in a hotel room or at Derek’s loft, involved him kneeling on a nice, plush carpet while Derek fucked his face. Despite the different locale, there’s nothing he wants more than to draw the moment out, but now is not the time for that. This isn’t about what he wants; this is about clearing Derek’s head, getting him back on track. 

Derek drops his other hand into Stiles’ hair and sags down lower, legs splaying further apart. Stiles isn’t sure if he does it on purpose, but it puts him in the perfect spot, which sure as hell seems like some kind of sign, so Stiles goes for it. He tucks his lips around his teeth and wraps them around the head of Derek’s dick, tightens his fingers around Derek’s knees, and throws himself into the act. 

He expects things to take some time, to be drawn out by the fear of getting caught or Derek’s sheer level of exhaustion, so he’s pleasantly surprised when, what feels like only five minutes later, Derek starts tugging at his hair, wordlessly attempting to pull him away. Stiles just glances up at him through the inky lines of his own eyelashes and minutely shakes his head. He stays at the same pace, slides his hands up Derek’s thighs and scrapes his nails roughly against his skin. One last flick of his tongue is all it takes for Derek to drop his head back against the Camaro with a muted _thud_ and come down Stiles’ throat. Thankfully, Stiles is prepared for it, and he doesn’t choke or cough. When it’s done, he pulls away with a last lick to gather up the remnants, and pats Derek’s thigh. When he gets to his feet, the joints in his knees pop like gunshots. After a moment of internal debate, he decides to help Derek out by pulling his pants and briefs back up to his waist. 

“You thinking clearly yet?” he asks, rubbing a thumb along his lower lip and popping it into his mouth. 

“Give me a few minutes,” Derek pants, eyes closed. Stiles smirks to himself and gives Derek a slap on the shoulder. 

“Alright. No rush.” He walks around to the front of the car and slides onto the hood with his feet braced against the front bumper. After a moment, he drops onto his back and tucks his arms underneath his head. The engine is still warm against his back, where his shirt has ridden up. Overhead, if he squints, he can make out a constellation. 

After a few minutes pass by in near silence, the metal shifts and creaks beside him as Derek joins him, and Stiles can’t help but crack one eye open and glance sideways. He didn’t pin Derek as the kind of person to treat his car in such a way; sure, he’s seen him sit on the hood before, but lying back on it is an entirely different thing. Nonetheless, Derek’s there, head just barely brushing the windshield, hands clasped on his stomach. 

“I have an idea of where we should look next,” he says, gaze fixed on the stars. 

“Yeah?” Stiles asks, a smile breaking across his face. This is the Derek he was hoping to bring back, and it looks like his efforts have succeeded. 

“The van that picked up Kali,” he says. “We never got the license plate number. If we look at the traffic cameras near Isaac’s apartment, maybe we’ll be able to pick something up.” It seems so obvious that Stiles can’t believe neither of them thought about it sooner. He doesn’t know if it’ll lead to anything; there’s no real rhyme or reason to the placement of Beacon Hills’ traffic cameras. Some of the busiest intersections are left uncovered, while others that have almost no traffic at all have more than one camera pointed at them. But it’s worth a shot.

“We should check out Aiden too,” he says. “There’s gotta be some information on him somewhere. Maybe he was a street kid too.” 

“Maybe he came from a foster or group home, something like that,” Derek muses. “It’s worth a shot. We can send a photo around. I have some people that might be able to run it through the system.” 

“One of our techs can do it. We’ve got some of the best in the state. And I’m not saying that just to brag.” 

“Sure you aren’t,” Derek says but, surprisingly, there’s no bite behind it. When Stiles turns his head, Derek is looking at him. He still has purple bags under his eyes, but he looks clearheaded, and his mouth is twisted in something almost approximating a real smile. “Thanks.” 

“For what?” 

“For… for that. I think it helped.” 

“Of course it helped. I wouldn’t blow you for the sheer hell of it,” Stiles says, nudging his foot against Derek’s calf. Derek rolls his eyes, but it seems lacking in some respect, missing some of the vitriol the action usually contains. 

“Whatever,” he mutters, finally looking away. “I owe you one.” 

“And I’m definitely going to cash in on that, at some point. But for now, we should head back.”

“Tomorrow is going to be a coffee morning.” 

“ _Every_ morning is a coffee morning,” Stiles retorts, sliding off the hood. “Can I keep driving?” 

“Why not?” Derek says, sliding off the hood as well and going toward the passenger side of the car. “But if you get come on my steering wheel or seats, you’re banned from the car.” 

“Not going to happen. I swallowed it all.” 

He’s more than a little pleased to see Derek’s face flush red right up to the tips of his ears. 

&.

They make it back to Beacon Hills just over an hour later. For most of the way, they talk shop while Stiles consumes the rest of his gas station snacks, sharing the salted peanuts and jerky with Derek. He lists all the traffic cameras he can think of, and they both muse on where else Aiden could have possibly come from. They decide to go look into the latter first; finding out more information on Aiden may give them more of a clue than combing through the traffic cameras, and it will _definitely_ take less time. 

They separate at the detachment. Stiles slides from the driver’s side, already missing the Camaro’s superior handling and heated seats. While he takes a minute to make sure that he has all of his stuff, Derek joins him standing beside the hood. 

“Try to get some sleep,” he says quietly and, for the first time, Stiles notices that the sleeves of his leather jacket are just a little too long, that they hang down over his knuckles. 

“You say that like you care,” Stiles finds himself retorting. He doesn’t exactly mean the words, but the familiarity of them in his mouth is something worth clinging to. 

“Whatever,” Derek mutters, tacking on one of his patented eye rolls. 

“Whatever,” Stiles mimics. “I’ll see you in the morning.” He steps around Derek and heads inside. He should be heading straight to his car so that he can get home and grab a few winks of sleep on his sagging sofa, but he wants to write down some of what they’ve come up with first. 

The bullpen is almost entirely empty; there’s only a lone detective, one that Stiles barely knows, tucked into a corner cubicle. There’s a pot of ink black coffee sitting on the percolator, and he pours himself a cup on his way by. It’s probably going to taste awful, but he needs something to get the taste of lukewarm energy drink out of his mouth. 

The sheer cleanliness of the conference room still feels strange, and he can’t help but want to knock a few boxes over, just to return it to its previous state of chaos. Instead, he grabs a clipboard and, seeing as all the chairs are covered in boxes and evidence folders, finds a spot on the floor to sit after grabbing a marker for taking notes. He divides the first page roughly down the middle, adds headers labelled _Aiden_ and _White Van_ , and starts taking down notes. 

After only a few moments, his eyes start fluttering shut, but he forces them back open once, twice, three times. 

The fourth time around, he loses the battle.


	18. Chapter 18

The next time Stiles opens his eyes, he can hear the buzz of the bullpen even through the closed door of the conference room. 

He’s on his side, head cushioned against an arm that, presumably, went dead a few hours ago. When he slowly sits up, pins and needles swarm up his wrist and elbow, and he winces in pain. The inside of his mouth is dry as a bone and tastes like garbage left to rot in the sun. The smell of coffee is almost overpoweringly strong, and when he glances to his left, there’s a still steaming mug resting on the floor beside a brown paper bag from a bakery a few blocks away. There’s also a warm, slightly scratchy blanket draped over him and, when he gives it a cursory sniff, he catches a trace of cologne that he’s all too familiar with. 

Parrish. 

Once the blood has mostly returned to his extremities, he slowly gets to his feet and takes a quick glance around the place. His clipboard is also on the floor, and it’s clear to see where he fell asleep; the last line of writing in the _Aiden_ column begins as legible words but quickly turns into a scrawl that veers into the second column. Thankfully, the rest of his notes are legible, and he takes the piece of paper off the clipboard and tapes it to a blank spot on the wall.

He folds the blanket up, leaves it on one of the boxes, grabs his coffee and the paper bag (which contains a chocolate coated donut), and steps out into the bullpen. It’s a swarm of activity; detectives bustling back and forth, hitting the side of the constantly malfunctioning photocopier, swigging back coffee. There’s no sign of Derek, so he quickly stops by his own cubicle and grabs his emergency duffel bag from underneath his desk. There’s a change of spare clothes, some deodorant, and a razor in it, and he takes it all to the bathroom.

There’s no saving his hair, even after he bends double so that he can stick his head underneath the tap and wet it down, so after he dries it off, he simply shoves more gel into it, hoping that the dishevelment just looks fashionably pretentious. He quickly shaves off the straggly stubble covering his face and changes into the spare clothes. They smell musty, but it’s better than stale sweat and energy drink. After stuffing his dirty clothes back into the duffel, he splashes more water on his face and heads back out to his cubicle. 

There’s no important messages for him so, once he’s stashed his bag back under his desk, he grabs the coffee and donut and ducks into Parrish’s cubicle. The man himself is at his desk, chin resting on one hand, rapidly filling out paperwork. 

“Morning,” Stiles says. 

“Good morning,” Parrish replies, visibly brightening up as he spins around. There’s a smear of ink on his cheek, and Stiles snorts. 

“You’ve got something on you. There,” he says, pointing at the smudge. Parrish absently rubs at his cheek and shrugs. 

“I’ll get it later. How’s the donut?” 

“Haven’t tried it yet. Just wanted to stop by and say thanks.”

“No problem,” Parrish replies with a broad smile. “Maybe you should get a cot for that boardroom, if you’re going to be sleeping in there all the time. I have one you can borrow, if you’d like.” 

“I’m trying not to make a habit out of it,” Stiles says, slightly burning his throat as he takes a swig of coffee. “But if it happens again, I’ll take you up on the offer.” 

“Sounds like a deal.” 

“Speaking of borrowing though,” Stiles says as he catches the scent of musty fabric again, “can I borrow some cologne?” 

“Really?” Parrish asks, raising an eyebrow. “Trying to cover up the smell of booze?” 

“No, actually,” Stiles laughs. Technically, he knows that he should be pissed off; if anyone else called him out on coming into work hungover, he would probably curse them out, but the way Parrish says it, eyes sparkling, easy smile, makes it feel like there’s no actual judgement behind the question. “I just haven’t taken these out of the bag in a while, and you always smell good. Figured you might have something I could borrow.” Immediately, he gets the urge to backtrack, but before he can try, Parrish nods. 

“Here,” Parrish says as he reaches into the bottom drawer of his desk and pulls out a small, blue glass bottle. “Don’t use too much. It’s pretty strong.” Stiles dabs a small amount on his fingertips and rubs it on his wrists. 

“Thanks,” he says, passing it back. 

“Anytime,” Parrish replies, and something about the way he says it makes Stiles pause and glance down at him. If he didn’t know better, he’d say that Parrish was giving him the eye, the same kind of eye Stiles has directed at him countless times. 

Before he can respond, he’s distracted by someone calling his name. When he whips around, he finds Derek standing at the entrance to the bullpen, fingers wrapped around a cup of coffee. Stiles waves and turns back to Parrish. 

“Looks like duty calls. See you later.” 

“Let me know if I can help you two in any way.” Stiles nods and heads across the room. Derek doesn’t meet him halfway; he stays standing just inside the doorway, and only when Stiles walks up to him does he turn around and take a left down the hallway, towards where their computer technicians (or, as Stiles likes to call them, computer wizards) operate.

“What’s up?” Stiles asks. 

“How’d you get here so early?” Derek responds, rather than answering the question, and Stiles rolls his eyes as he takes another sip of his coffee. 

“Nice to see you too. I didn’t end up going home. Stopped in the conference room to write some stuff down and ended up falling asleep.” Derek glares at him, and Stiles continues, “Hey, you told me to sleep, and I did. Parrish even brought me a blanket.” 

“Of course he did,” Derek mutters. 

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?” 

“Nothing,” Derek says, continuing down the hallway. For a few moments, Stiles simply gapes at his rapidly retreating back. Last night, when they’d parted ways, Derek hadn’t been an asshole, but now it’s like he’s devolved right back to how he was when they first started working together.

“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters as he starts walking down the hallway, catching up to Derek just as he turns into the technician’s room. The place is like a smaller bullpen. The lights are dimmer, and florescent glow blossoms from the dozens of computer screens dotting the room. Wires crisscross the floor, and even though they’ve been taped to the carpet, Stiles still finds himself taking high steps to avoid tripping. Only three of the technicians are in today, and he cuts around Derek, making a beeline for the one he knows best. 

“Danny!” he calls out. “How’s it going?” 

“It’s going fine,” Danny says, not taking his eyes away from his computer screen. “What do you need?” Stiles opens his mouth, pauses and then glances back at Derek as it occurs to him that he doesn’t actually know what they need. 

“Can you run a name for us?” Derek answers. “It’s just a first name, unfortunately.” 

“That’s not a lot to work with, but sure,” Danny says, cracking his knuckles slightly. “Who is it?” 

“Guy’s name is Aiden,” Stiles says, sitting on the cleanest edge of Danny’s desk, close enough for his thigh to bump against the armrest of Danny’s chair. “He’s the one who killed himself in the interrogation room the other day.” 

“Oh, that guy,” Danny says absently, like he’s commenting on nothing more exciting than the weather. “Aren’t they running tests on his fingerprints and DNA?”

“Results won’t be back for a few days,” Derek replies shortly. 

“I’m not even sure if Aiden is this asshat’s real name,” Stiles admits, “but it’s worth a shot. I think he was in his late twenties. He might have been a street kid.”

“Or he might have been in a foster home at some point,” Derek says, using Stiles as a jumping off point. “Can you work with those parameters?” 

“I can do my best,” Danny says, fingers flying across the keyboard. “But don’t get your hopes up. Can you bring me some coffee?” 

“Sure thing,” Stiles says, sliding off Danny’s desk. “Be back soon.”

When they leave the room, Derek immediately buries his face into his coffee cup, but Stiles hasn’t forgotten the tone of his voice, the furrow of his eyebrows when Stiles had been talking to Parrish. Before they can get further than a few steps from the door, he stops again, grabs Derek’s arm, and forces him to stop walking. 

“Seriously, what's your problem?” he asks, glancing down the hallway to make sure that there’s no one in earshot. “You were _fine_ last night, and now you’re acting like someone pissed in your cereal.” 

“That’s disgusting. I just didn’t get enough sleep.” 

“Bullshit. That’s _my_ excuse.”

“Look,” Derek snaps. “I’m fine. Let’s go get _Danny_ his coffee.” It’s the way he says Danny’s name that makes it all click in Stiles’ head, that makes a grin slowly spread across his face. 

The way Derek’s been treating Parrish. The look in his eyes when Stiles had sidled up close to Danny. 

He’s _jealous._

“Now I get it,” he murmurs softly and, with a laugh, drops his fingers from Derek’s arm and starts walking down the hallway, finishing up his coffee as he does. When he raises his arm, he catches a hint of Parrish’s cologne, and he inhales deeply. 

“You know,” he calls back over his shoulder, switching hands so that he can tear open the bag containing his still untouched donut, “you should ask Parrish what kind of cologne he uses. It smells great.” 

He doesn’t give Derek the satisfaction of turning around, but he can still feel the glare burning into the back of his neck. 

&.

Once they reach the bullpen again, Stiles makes a beeline for the coffee and grabs the first cup of a fresh pot for Danny. Parrish isn’t around, but Stiles still sees the look Derek gives his cubicle, like he’s trying to light it on fire with his eyes alone. He thinks of making another comment but ultimately decides to bite it back instead. 

He has to spread this material out. 

He polishes off his donut, shoves the garbage into the trash, and heads back to the technician’s room, all while Derek silently trails after him. When they re-enter the room, Danny glances over at them, fingers still flying over the keyboard. 

“Think I might have found something for you,” he says, bringing up a digital file. The picture on the screen is Aiden, but a few years younger. Danny presses another key and another photo comes up, this time of Aiden standing beside someone who is identical to him in every way. 

“Who the hell is that?” Stiles asks, pointing at the second picture. 

“Meet Aiden and Ethan Carver. Twins, twenty-five years old. They’ve been missing for eight years. Disappeared from a group home a few towns over. Apparently, they just walked out one day and left all of their stuff behind.”

“Do you have the entire police file there?” Derek asks, leaning forward into Stiles’ space. One of his hands drops to his lower back, and while it may just be for stability, Stiles somehow doubts that’s the sole intention behind the action. 

“All of it,” Danny answers. “Want me to print it out?” 

“That would be great. Put a BOLO out on Ethan as well,” Stiles says, standing back up and pushing Derek’s hand away.

Danny sends the file to one of the printers in the bullpen. It takes a few minutes for the fifty pages to spit out, and as they spill out of the printer, Stiles tucks them into a manila folder that he’s labeled _The Twins_. While he waits, Derek steps off to one side of the room and makes a phone call. He’s still talking when the printer gives up the last page, so Stiles takes the file into the conference room and starts reading. 

Aiden and Ethan were placed in the foster care system when they were eight years old, bounced around a few times before they finally landed in the home they disappeared from when they were eighteen. The various reports on their behavior reveal nothing out of the ordinary, aside from a few incidents of them ganging up on other kids and stealing their stuff, but Stiles has heard of kids doing far worse in foster care. Aside from that, all the other accounts say that the twins were quiet, kept to themselves, had decent enough grades. 

And then, one day, they simply vanished. 

He flips through the file a few times, gives cursory glances at the details about the manhunt that had taken place and turned up nothing. There’s not a lot of useful information and eventually, he closes the file, tosses it aside, and sighs. 

Really, they’ve still got nothing. 

Derek finally comes back into the room, carrying another cup of coffee, looking suitably chastised. He slides down to the ground beside Stiles, stretches his legs out straight, and sighs deeply. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. They’re definitely not the words Stiles expected to hear, and it takes him a moment to process them.

“Fine,” he eventually says with a dismissive wave. “We all have our days. Who was that on the phone?” 

“One of the local cops investigating Erica and Boyd’s commune,” he replies. “They took some of the other members in for further questioning, but so far, no one has said anything. They found a few fibers in the bedroom, but they’re still running tests.” 

“So basically, we’ve got nothing there.” 

“Basically.” Stiles curses under his breath, steals Derek’s coffee cup, and takes a giant gulp. When he lowers it, Derek is staring at him with a raised eyebrow, but he miraculously doesn’t look pissed off. He almost looks _amused._

Trying to keep track of Derek’s moods is like riding the world’s loopiest roller coaster. 

“I can get you another cup if you want,” he says, taking the cup back from Stiles’ hands. “If you really think you need more coffee.” 

“I’m fine. I read through Aiden’s case file. There’s nothing useful in there.” 

“So really, we’ve got _nothing_ useful.” 

“That’s definitely what it feels like.” For what feels like hours, Derek doesn’t speak. Instead, after switching his coffee to his left hand, he drops his right hand onto Stiles’ knee. It doesn’t occur to Stiles to question the action; he just leans into it, shifting over slightly so that his hip is bumping against Derek’s. 

Sure, he likes riling the guy up, likes exploiting his jealousy for his own amusement, but as much Stiles likes to see him fume, he thinks he likes this better. It’s gotten to the point where having Derek’s hand on his knee feels _familiar._

It’s terrifying. 

“Where do we go from here?” he asks. The question is really directed more at the room itself, as he gazes from wall to wall, each of them covered in paper and evidence and photographs. There has to be a connection somewhere in the room, some tiny link that they’ve overlooked.

“I say we turn to the van,” Derek says. “We can cross out business vans, anything with a logo on it. The sides of the van that picked up Kali were blank.”

“Do you think they stole it?” Stiles asks. 

“Maybe,” Derek says with a shrug. “But even if we find the van, we still have to figure out where it went after it picked up Kali.” 

“One step at a time,” Stiles says. “We can get Danny checking through any reports of stolen white vans for the whole state. The traffic bureau should have other records. We might as well go over there now. I could use some fresh air.” 

“You and me both,” Derek says. Something about the tone of his voice gives the impression of something missing, like the sentence isn’t quite complete. Stiles tries to be patient, but just as he reaches his last nerve and opens his mouth to say _spit it out_ , Derek speaks again. “That cologne doesn’t suit you.” 

And the roller coaster goes for yet another loop. 

Stiles almost bursts out laughing at the sheer absurdity of the statement. Instead, he plasters a grin on his face.

“Yeah? Have a better suggestion?” 

“I do. I’ll show you, next time you’re at my place.” 

“There’s going to be a next time?” Derek nods and slides his hand further up Stiles’ leg, stopping at mid-thigh.

“I certainly hope so,” he says, squeezing once before getting to his feet. “Let’s go talk to Danny again.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tragic backstory time! 
> 
> also, my goal is to have this story fully posted by the end of March, so wish me luck! we've still got about 45k left to go.

After they give Danny what little information they have about the van, they head out into the parking lot. Without thinking twice, Stiles automatically starts walking towards Derek's Camaro. 

He can’t remember the last time he was in his own car for more than twenty minutes at a time. 

The traffic bureau is only fifteen minutes away and, in order to get there, they have to drive right by Scott’s place. Stiles is pretty sure that stopping there goes against some kind of departmental policy about wasting resources, but Aiden _had_ threatened Scott and his family, and while there have been detectives watching his place around the clock since then, the urge to check in is still impossible to ignore. 

“Swing down there,” Stiles says, thrusting his index finger at the upcoming turning lane.

“Why?” 

“Because Scott lives down there, and I want to make sure he’s okay, so make the damn turn.” Amazingly, Derek doesn’t protest or even make a snide remark; he simply does as he’s told.

Even though it’s just off one of Beacon Hills’ main thoroughfares, Scott’s street couldn’t be further removed from the chaos and bustle. It’s so close to resembling a fifties sitcom that Stiles can’t help but want to gag every time he cruises past the manicured lawns. Scott’s house is near the end of the block, and his truck is parked in the driveway. There’s an unmarked CBI vehicle, discernible only by the bars strapped between the back and front seats, parked on the curb in front of the house. Derek pulls up behind it, and Stiles can’t help but notice that the two detectives inside perk up at their appearance. 

He says a silent thanks to Parrish for arranging to have actual competent people watch his best friend’s place as he slides from the car. 

“This should only take a few minutes,” he says. 

“Fine by me,” Derek responds, slamming his door. “I want to see what kind of person has been able to put up with you since high school.” 

“Since preschool, actually, and fuck you very much,” Stiles replies. He thinks it’s a sign of progress that he’s able to so quickly swallow down the urge to jump across the hood of the car and wrap his hands around Derek’s throat.

As they approach the driveway, the passenger side of the CBI vehicle pops open, and the detective slides one leg out. One hand is gripping a coffee cup, while the other is out of sight, presumably resting on his gun. Before he can hoist himself to his feet, Stiles pulls out his badge. 

“Just here to check in. Seen anything weird?” 

“Nothing,” the detective answers, visibly relaxing. “Been quiet since our shift started. Anything in particular that we should be looking out for? Aside from the obvious, of course.”

“Yeah, actually,” Derek says. “Keep an eye out for a white van.” 

“Will do.” The detective slides back into the car, and Stiles turns and strides up the driveway. Almost as soon as he reaches the bottom of the four steps leading up to Scott’s door, it flies open, and Scott steps outside with Lily perched on his hip. He’s dressed in loose jeans and a muscle shirt, and his feet are bare. There’s what looks like baby food smeared along his cheek (and Lily’s entire face) and black marker covering both arms, and Stiles doesn’t think he’s ever been so grateful to see someone in such good health.

“Thought I heard you out here,” Scott says with a grin, coming down the steps. Lily burbles and waves her chubby arms at Stiles and, although he doesn’t really want some of the only clean clothes he has left to get dirty, he can’t resist her. 

“Just came by to make sure everything was okay,” he says, taking Lily from Scott’s arms and dropping a kiss on her head of fine black hair, which earns him another burble and a sharp tug on his tie. “Kira home?”

“She’s at work today,” Scott answers. “Just me and the little food fighter here.” After a moment, he turns, wipes his hand on his jeans and offers it to Derek. “You must be Derek. Stiles has told me a lot about you.” 

“I’m sure some of it wasn’t great,” Derek replies, “but he’s told me nothing but good about you.” Scott blushes slightly and rubs at the back of his neck. 

“Well, he was just leaving stuff out then.” 

“Hey, I keep your secrets so that you keep mine,” Stiles says, shifting Lily’s weight in his arms. Every time he picks her up, it feels like she’s doubled in weight. “I’m sorry I haven’t stopped by in a while. This case has been insane.”

“I kind of gathered that,” Scott says. After a moment, he steps closer and lowers his voice. “Be honest with me. Are we safe here? Because we can go stay with Kira’s parents for a while, if-“ 

“Scotty,” Stiles interrupts, shifting Lily again so that he can drop a hand onto Scott’s shoulder. “Listen to me. You guys are safe, alright? We’re going to keep people watching your place until we find these assholes and put them away for good.” Bile bubbles up in his throat, and he forces himself to swallow it down. The fact that he even has to have this conversation infuriates him. 

“He’s right,” Derek says. Lily waves one chubby fist at him and, for a moment, his mouth curves into a truly genuine smile. “Detective Parrish has vouched for these guys,” he continues, extending his index finger so that Lily can wrap her tiny digits around it. “They’ll make sure that you stay safe.” Scott takes a deep breath, exhales and nods rapidly, the trust and relief as obvious on his face as if they were written there in the same marker that’s scrawled along his arms. 

“Okay. I’ll keep a lookout though, just in case.” 

“Sounds like a plan,” Stiles says, twisting his body so that he can pull Scott into a one armed hug without squishing Lily between them. “And you can call me anytime. I probably won’t be sleeping.” 

“You _need_ to get more sleep,” Scott says, gently extracting Lily from Stiles’ arms. “Both of you do, by the looks of it.” 

“I’ll sleep after these lunatics are in prison,” Derek replies. 

Stiles doesn’t think he’s _ever_ going to be able to catch up to all the sleep he’s lost over this case (let alone all the sleep he’s lost in his entire life), but he nods anyways and plants a kiss on Lily’s sticky forehead before he waves goodbye. He waits until Scott is back inside before he heads back down the driveway. 

“Alright,” he says, taking a moment to wave at the detectives on guard duty. “Let’s get over to the traffic bureau. Maybe we’ll actually find something useful.” Derek nods, but he seems distant, occupied by something. Stiles decides to wait until they’re in the car to ask, but before he can even open his mouth, Derek twists in his seat and levels him with a solemn gaze.

“I won’t let anything happen to them,” he says. “I promise.” 

“Well, there’s something we finally agree on,” Stiles responds automatically, unable to stop himself. Once it hits him what he actually said, he sighs and resists the urge to bash himself in the head. Sure, being an asshole is fun, but when it comes to _this_ , when it comes to protecting pretty much the only people in his life he truly cares about, he wants to be nothing less than dead serious. “Thank you.” Before he can stop himself, more words push themselves into his mouth, begging to be spat out. “I could take it happening to Isaac, or Malia, but Scott…” Warmth flares behind his eyes, pinpricks of burning hot heat that he hasn’t felt in months, and he digs his fingers into the smooth leather of the seat. “Scott’s all I have.” 

“What about your father?” 

“Have you _met_ my dad?” Stiles retorts, a razor sharp laugh tearing from his throat. “I mean, I love him. But after my mom died, he never really came back.”

“How did your mother die?” Derek asks, and even though Stiles is technically the one that brought it up, part of him wants to snap and say _none of your fucking business_ , because really, it isn’t. Derek knowing how his mother died won’t help them solve the case any faster. It won’t help connect the dots any quicker if Stiles tells Derek about the months he spent beside his mother’s hospital bed, holding her hand as her memory vanished, first in fits and spurts, and then all at once. It certainly won’t help his opinion of Stiles’ father if Stiles tells him about the nights his dad drank himself into oblivion, sometimes to the point where Stiles woke up to find him passed out on the couch, chest and chin covered in his own reeking vomit. 

The only thing that might happen if he provides the gory details, if he tells Derek about how he woke up one night with his mom on top of him with her IV cord ripped out and blood trickling down her forearm and her skeleton thin fingers wrapped around his neck, screaming that he was a demon trying to kill her, is make Derek pity him, and if there’s one thing Stiles cannot stomach, it’s pity. 

But at the same time, he’s curious about Derek’s parents, and perhaps sharing this one piece of information, albeit in a sanitized form, will work in his favor. 

So he takes a deep breath, sighs it out deeply, and fixes his gaze on the windshield. Despite his commitment to telling Derek, it takes a moment for the words to actually come out. It’s been so long since he went any further than telling someone that his mom was simply dead that even stringing the words together feels like tonguing barbed wire. 

“It’s called frontotemporal dementia,” he finally answers, hating how hushed his voice sounds. “It’s like Alzheimer’s, but it usually hits younger. I was ten when she died.”

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, and Stiles almost tells him to fuck off on reflex alone. But Derek doesn’t sound like he’s saying it because it’s expected; he sounds totally genuine, and that makes the pinpricks of heat in Stiles’ eyes burn hotter. 

“It was a long time ago. It’s hard to remember what she sounded like.” She’d been a beautiful woman; in all of the pictures scattered around his apartment or at his dad’s place in Sacramento, she’s smiling. She had large eyes the color of mahogany and flowing dark hair a shade or two darker than Stiles’, and while she’d only been an inch or so shorter than his father, her personality eclipsed his. But while he can still see her perfectly, the sound of her voice is almost entirely lost to him. He has memories of her reading to him as a child or chastising him for doing something stupid, but whenever she opens her mouth in these memories, he can’t be sure that the voice he hears is hers or if it’s a mash-up of other voices filling in the gap. He’s sure that he could ask his dad for confirmation; there has to be some home videos hidden somewhere in his attic, but that’s not a subject he wants to broach while either of them are sober, and he’s fairly certain that if he broaches it while his dad is drunk, it’s not going to lead anywhere good. 

He can’t help but wonder just how different his life would be if she’d never been taken away from them. How different _both_ of them would be.

But what-ifs never do anyone any good. 

He shakes his head once to clear out some of the distracting thoughts, but before he can try to think of a way to raise the subject of how Derek’s parents died, Derek does the heavy lifting for him. 

“I was fifteen when mine died,” he says, the leather of the steering wheel creaking and shifting underneath his clenching fingers. “It was a house fire. Some assholes that I went to high school with were pissed off about something my older sister Laura did, and they decided to throw a Molotov cocktail through her bedroom window as revenge. They said it was supposed to be just a prank.” 

“What happened?” Stiles asks, shifting in his seat so that he can better face Derek.

“They greatly underestimated how flammable our house was,” Derek says with a rueful chuckle as a shadow passes over his exhausted face. “A bunch of my relatives were staying over that weekend. Our parents, some of my aunts and uncles, three of my younger cousins. All of them died.”

“Holy shit.” If Derek hears him, there’s no sign; his whole expression is distant, and his eyes are focused out the window, like he’s telling the story to someone across the street. 

“Laura wasn’t even _there_. The three of us were staying at our grandmother’s. The phone rang at five o’clock in the morning. I was almost back asleep by the time my grandmother started screaming. I don’t remember a lot about that night, or the week and month after, but I remember her screaming.” His head sags on his shoulders and, while it’s been a very long time since Stiles has had the urge to hug someone that wasn’t Scott, there’s a definitive part of him that wants to lean across the console and wrap his arms around Derek’s broad shoulders. 

But Derek isn’t finished yet.

“The guy who actually threw the cocktail was executed four years ago. I watched him die. But it didn’t make things any better.” Derek falls silent, and he sinks back into his seat, relinquishes his grip on the steering wheel and drops his hands into his lap. The urge to hug him is still present, so Stiles decides to meet it halfway by leaning across the space between them and dropping his hand on top of Derek’s. 

“Jesus,” he mutters, exhaling through his teeth. “Between the two of us, we’ve got enough sad backstory for five people. I’m amazed we’re not out there killing people ourselves.”

“Lots and lots of therapy,” Derek replies and, although there’s a smile on his face, he’s at least fifty percent serious, based solely on the tone of his voice. 

“I should probably try that sometime,” Stiles says, and he’s only fifty percent kidding. “Or maybe I could just tell everything else to you.” 

“I don’t get paid nearly enough for that,” Derek says, glancing over to meet Stiles’ gaze. “And no, sex doesn’t count as payment.”

“Well, that’s about all I’ve got to offer.” Derek’s gaze doesn’t leave his and, for a few moments, Stiles feels the air in the car grow thicker. It’s like he can see exactly how the next few seconds are going to unreel. Derek is going to lean in and kiss him, slot their fingers together properly so that they’re palm to palm, and Stiles is going to let him. He’s going to kiss back, not because he’s trying to get Derek’s head on straight, but because he _wants_ to.

Just when Stiles makes the decision to lean in, Derek blinks, his mouth grows taut again, and he slips his hand out from underneath Stiles’. 

“We should get to the traffic bureau soon,” he says, twisting the keys in the ignition first. “Want some coffee first?” 

“When have I ever said no to coffee?” Stiles asks with a laugh that sounds fake even to his own ears. Thankfully, Derek doesn’t question it. He simply pulls away from the curb, and Stiles takes one last glance out the window at Scott’s house as they pass by. 

He has no doubt that the detectives will take good care of Scott and his family; if Parrish vouched for them, they’re good in his books. But he still wants this case wrapped up as quickly as possible, so that they can go back to having normal lives, lives that don’t involve having an unmarked cruiser parked in front of their house night and day. 

If nothing else, he just wants Scott to feel safe again.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as you may have noticed, we now have an actual total chapter count for this! nine more to go!
> 
> next chapter is ridiculously fucking long because I couldn't find a better way to split it up, so look forward to that!

They make it to the traffic bureau, which is quite possibly the ugliest building in Beacon Hills, just after noon. It’s a long, low concrete building the same color as a stormy sky, around the corner from the town hall and the main public works yard. Windows cloudy with grime cover the walls at set intervals. The iron letters reading _Beacon Hills Traffic Bureau_ installed above the front door may have been black at some point, but now they’re rust brown. Even the cars parked in front are colorless; most of them are sedans of varying ages and shades of beige.

Even if it _isn’t_ the ugliest building in town, it’s certainly the least inspiring. 

There are a few parking spots right in front of the building, and Derek slides into one. Stiles has barely stepped out of the car when his phone rings with a call from Danny. 

“What do you have for us?”

“Don’t get too excited. I’ve done some digging and I can’t find any records of any white vans being stolen from the surrounding three counties in the last three months, and the list of properly registered white vans, even when you take tradesmen and businesses off the list, is still over five hundred.”

“Damn it!” Stiles lashes out and kicks the nearest object, which happens to be the Camaro’s tire. Truthfully, he doesn’t know what he expected; Danny finding the van would have made things way easier, but it was a long shot to begin with. “Keep looking, I guess,” he says, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “Extend the search back a year, widen it to include the whole state. I know it’s a pain in the ass, but it’s one of the only leads we’ve got. We’re going to try our luck at the traffic bureau.” 

“That’s going to take me awhile. I’ll give you a progress report in a few hours.” With that, Danny unceremoniously hangs up, and Stiles shoves his phone back into his pocket. 

“Was that Danny?” Derek asks.

“Yep. No luck on his search for the white van. I told him to keep looking, but we might as well get a start on here.” 

“Might as well,” Derek echoes as they cross the parking lot. The yellow paint dividing each parking spot from the next has long faded to a dull tan color, and the asphalt is cracked and pitted in a number of places. Loose gravel crackles underneath Stiles’ boots as they reach the front steps, and when he brushes against the railing that lines the stairs on either side, flakes of rust drift to the ground like ashes. 

He hopes that all the money the traffic bureau obviously isn’t putting into maintaining the property has been sunk into traffic cameras, but he doesn’t want to get his hopes up again. 

Once they’re through the front doors, they step into a small lobby that looks like a hospital long past its glory days. Plastic chairs in gaudy colors line the walls on either side of the room and, somehow, their vividness only makes the place more depressing. Unsurprisingly, not one of the chairs is currently occupied. The floor is lined with faded tiles the color of old limes, and while the walls may have been pristine wedding dress white at some point in the distant past, they’re now discolored to something that reminds Stiles of curdled milk. At the end of the room, facing the doors, is a reception desk that looks as tired as the rest of the place; the front of it is pitted and scarred, and the top is stained with what looks an awful lot like nicotine. 

“I’ll never complain about the detachment office again,” Derek mutters under his breath just before they reach the desk, and Stiles has to slam his teeth into his lip to hold back from laughing. Thankfully, by the time the young man sitting behind the desk looks up from his computer, Stiles has managed to get himself back under control. 

“Can I help you?” he asks in a voice so filled with boredom Stiles almost wants to cry.

“Detective Stilinski,” Stiles replies, flipping open his wallet and pushing his badge across the stained counter. “We need access to the records for your traffic cameras, going back approximately three weeks.” 

“We’ll also need some sort of list detailing where the cameras are located in a particular three block radius, to start,” Derek continues, pushing his own badge across the counter. The receptionist only gives them a cursory look before he pushes them both back and starts typing something into his computer. 

“Left hallway, last door on the right,” he replies with a sigh. “Mason should be in there. He’ll be able to help you.” 

“Appreciate it,” Stiles says, firing off a mock salute after he scoops up his badge. He leads the way around the desk and through the door leading into the left hallway. Doors, both open and closed, dot the hallway, and a variety of sounds spill out from them; clipped conversations, gently wafting country music, the rapid thudding of fingers striking a keyboard. The walls are still the same ugly shade of off-white, and the florescent track lighting buzzing overhead only makes things worse. 

“Someone really needs to redecorate this place,” Stiles declares. The only sign of any true color in the entire hallway are the two vividly red fire extinguishers bolted into the wall, one at each end. “Like, maybe paint some murals or something. This is even worse than your creepy building.” The last door on the right is slightly ajar, and Stiles knocks once before he pushes it fully open. 

It seems like every square inch of the walls is holding a small computer monitor, each of them broadcasting a different video feed, and the flurry of movement is enough to make Stiles dizzy. After blinking a few times and letting his eyes adjust to the chaos, he focuses on one of the few points in the room where there _isn’t_ movement. File boxes line the floor on either side of the door, creating a path leading straight to the room’s only desk. The desk itself is crowded with yet another, larger computer monitor, a keyboard, and empty coffee mugs. There’s a chair sitting in front of it, and Stiles can see a close-cropped head of black hair poking over the top, outlined by the glow from all the screens. 

“Are you Mason?” Derek asks. Based on the way his eyes seem to be pointed at the floor, he’s also having a hard time adjusting to the flurry. 

The person in the chair jumps and spins around in a half circle. He’s surprisingly young, definitely younger than Stiles. There are earbuds tucked into his ears, and he’s holding a container of takeout in one hand and chopsticks in the other. 

“Sorry, I only half heard you,” he says around a mouthful of noodles as he reaches up and tugs one earbud out with the hand still wrapped around the chopsticks. “What’d you say?” 

“Are you Mason?” Derek repeats, the annoyance obvious in the furrow of his eyebrows. The guy nods rapidly and slurps up a noodle threatening to escape from his mouth. 

“That’s me. Who are you?”

“We’re with the California Bureau of Investigation,” Stiles says, not bothering to reach for his badge because frankly, he’s sick of whipping it out. “The guy at the front told us that you’re the person to talk to. We need to look at some footage from your traffic cameras, going back a few weeks.” 

“We don’t know what cameras we need,” Derek continues. “Can you help us?” The guy nods and shoves another heap of noodles into his mouth as he spins back around and places the container on the already crowded desk. 

“Sure can. We’re gonna need to cross the hall though.” Derek leads the way out of the office, and Mason brings up the rear, clutching an absurdly large bottle of neon-green soda. 

“Just give me one second,” he replies, unscrewing the top of the drink with one thumb and rummaging through his pockets with the other. After a moment, he produces a ring with a number of heavy keys dangling from it and, after some shuffling and rearranging, he shoves one into the doorknob and twists it open. 

This room is bigger than Mason’s office, but no less crowded. There’s a window set into one wall, covered by a pair of blinds that don’t look like they’ve been disturbed in years. More boxes litter the floor, and there are dented gray filing cabinets lining the walls. There are only two computer monitors in the room, neither of which are turned on. One is the size of a television, mounted on the wall. The other is directly underneath on a desk, and Mason slides into the chair in front of it and boots it up. As soon as the screen lights up, the wall monitor begins to glow as well. 

Once Mason logs in, he brings up what appears to be a map of Beacon Hills. The streets are indicated by green lines, and small red circles dot the entire map, clustered more heavily in some spots than others, sparser on the outer edges of town. 

If that’s actually the camera situation, Stiles thinks they might actually have a shot.

“What’s the address of the place you need eyes on?” 

Stiles reels off the address of Isaac’s apartment building, and after Mason types it in, a yellow dot, presumably that of the building, appears on the screen, with a number of red circles in the nearby vicinity.

“Did you see what direction the van went when it pulled out?” Stiles asks Derek. 

“No,” Derek sighs. “It went around the building, and by the time I caught up, it was out of sight.” 

“Well shit,” Stiles mutters, raising his gaze back to the map. There’s four entrances to the cluster of apartment buildings Isaac lives in-

(Or, rather, _lived in_ , Stiles reminds himself, and that single thought hurts like a stab to the gut.)

-and from each of those entrances, there’s two possible ways that they could have gone. That number multiplies exponentially at each turn, and there’s no way that they can know that they didn’t switch the van out for another vehicle or park it in some warehouse somewhere along the way. Stiles glances at the sheer number of cameras marching away from the apartment complex and gets the urge to bash his face off the nearest hard surface.

Reviewing the tapes from all of those cameras, even when narrowed down to the right date and time, is going to take more than just the two of them. 

A thought appears in Stiles’ mind, and he can’t decide whether he should feel like an asshole or if he should just succumb to the pure amusement that the thought provides. Feeling guilty, at first, seems like the path he really should tread; his relationship with Derek has been going strangely good as of late, for the most part, and being an asshole for the sake of being an asshole _really_ seems like the kind of thing that could make Derek hate him for good.

On the other hand, there’s no denying how _fun_ it feels to get Derek all riled up, to make him act like he’s defending his property, and while Stiles doesn’t exactly relish the notion of _being_ someone’s property, the idea that someone actually finds him worth being possessive over is bizarrely appealing, in a way that he thinks he should do some serious reflection upon.

In the end, he decides to explore the best of both worlds. 

“We can’t do this alone,” he says, waving at the screens. “We’ll have another body on our hands before we make any progress.” 

“What about Danny?” Derek suggests. “He could probably comb through these faster than us.” 

“Probably,” Stiles concedes, “but he’s also probably got about forty other things on the go right now, not to mention that he’s already searching for our missing van.” Derek nods again and this time, a furrow appears between his thick eyebrows. 

“I assume you have someone else in mind,” he posits, and Stiles nods. 

“I was thinking we could ask Parrish. He _did_ say he was willing to help in any way that he could.” The furrow between Derek’s eyebrows deepens, and he crosses his arms over his chest. 

“Give him a call and ask. So long as he pays attention.” 

“When have you ever known Parrish to _not_ pay attention?” Stiles replies, fishing in his pocket for his phone. 

“I don’t really know Parrish, period.” The tone of Derek’s voice goes beyond merely disgruntled; he almost sounds like he’s _seething_ , and Stiles buries a grin against his hand as he steps out into the hallway.

He doesn’t plan on letting this interfere with solving the case, but if he’s going to be searching through traffic cameras for hour after hour in the ugliest building in town, he’s going to need _some_ source of amusement. 

Parrish picks up on the first ring.

“Hey Stiles,” he says, and Stiles can’t help but wonder how long it’s been since Parrish actually addressed him as Detective Stilinski. “Is everything okay?” 

“About as good as it can be,” Stiles replies, glancing back over his shoulder into the room. Derek is hovering over Mason’s shoulder, and Mason’s fingers are flying over the keyboard. “But if you’re not doing anything urgent, we could use your help over at the traffic bureau. I can call the commander and ask that you officially be reassigned-“

“No need,” Parrish interrupts, and Stiles hears the clanging of a drawer closing on the other end of the line. “I’ll tell him you need some help with the investigation. I should be over there in about half an hour. Want me to pick you up some coffee?” 

“Parrish, you’re a dream,” Stiles says and, while he’s still facing away from the room, he can still feel Derek’s gaze burning into the nape of his neck. “Can you grab some for Derek too? He takes it black.” 

“You’ve got it,” Parrish replies. “See you soon.” Stiles ends the call and tucks his phone back into his pocket. He walks back into the room and, in response to Derek’s withering glare, he claps him hard on the shoulder. 

“Don’t worry, he’s picking up something for you too,” he says. “Now where are we setting up?” 

&.

They set up in an office a few doors down that looks like it’s been disused for years. The walls are just as bland as the rest of the place, and the dome lights overhead are full of fly carcasses. There are two windows set into the wall, covered in thin, crooked blinds that have seen far better days, and the first thing Stiles does is crack them open for some fresh air. 

In only a few minutes, Mason has all of the computers dotted around the room up and running. He loads the map up on each of the screens and brings up the yellow dot of Isaac’s apartment building. 

“If you want to look at a camera’s feed,” Mason says, chewing on a glob of gum, “just click on the blue circles. You can go back days and hours from there. The rest of it is pretty straightforward, but I’m right down the hall if you need any help.” With that crash course completed, he disappears back out into the hallway, leaving the door half-open behind him. Stiles claims the desk closest to the door and falls backwards into a swiveling chair that wobbles ominously underneath him. 

“We should wait until Parrish gets here to start,” he says. “So that we can establish who is going to look where.”

“Sure,” Derek mutters, settling down at one of the other desks. He makes a few experimental clicks, appears to be satisfied with the results, and leans back, long legs stretching out underneath the desk. Despite the bags under his eyes, he looks quite good; his hair is spiked up slightly, his shirt and tie are complimentary shades of blue, and his trousers are tight in all the right places. 

The thing is, Parrish looks just as good when he eventually joins them, effortlessly balancing a carry-out tray containing three towering cups of coffee. There’s a brown paper bag tucked under his arm and a plastic bag hanging from his other hand. Stiles hadn't really paid much attention to how he'd looked earlier in the morning, but there’s not a hint of stubble on his face; the planes of his cheek, the sweep of his upper lip and the strong line of his jaw are all smooth. He’s wearing a leather jacket as well, brown instead of black, and there’s a mint green button-up peeking out underneath. When he twists slightly after coming in the door, Stiles realizes that he isn’t wearing a tie, and the top two buttons of his shirt are undone, revealing a throat two shades paler than the rest of his skin. 

“Figured I’d grab some water too,” he says by way of explanation, setting the plastic bag down beside Stiles’ feet. “Hey Derek.” 

“Hello,” Derek says gruffly, taking the coffee that Parrish passes to him. Parrish gives him a small smile and passes another cup to Stiles. 

“Two sugars, no milk,” he says. Their fingers momentarily brush together when Stiles takes it from his hands, but if Parrish finds it awkward or even notices, he doesn’t react in any way. 

“Perfect,” Stiles says, taking a sip and burning his tongue. “What’s in the bag?” 

“Snacks for later,” Parrish says, setting the now empty tray and bag on the dented metal desk in front of Stiles’. “Now, walk me through this. What exactly are we looking for, and what can I do to help?” 

Stiles gives Parrish the low-down on the situation, explains what kind of vehicle they’re looking for and where they’re starting from. He has to take lead on the situation out of necessity; every time he pauses, the most Derek contributes is a nod or a muttered agreement. By the third time it happens, Stiles rolls his eyes and stops trying to make him feel included. 

Eventually, once Stiles has summarized all the relevant information, Parrish makes a _hmm_ sound and takes a large sip of his coffee. 

“Okay,” he says, drumming his fingers against the desk and effortlessly folding himself into a chair. “Where have you decided to look first?” 

“We haven’t decided anything yet,” Derek replies, just as Stiles opens his mouth. “We were waiting for you to get here.” 

“Sorry I took so long,” Parrish says with a shrug, either totally oblivious to the vicious bite lingering just below Derek’s words or just doing a great job at ignoring it. “I can start looking at the back left camera and work from there.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Stiles says, slouching more comfortably into his chair and giving his knuckles a firm crack. “Maybe if we move fast enough, we’ll be out of here in a few hours.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter didn't turn out to be as long as I anticipated (I managed to cut 800 words out), but next one is another doozy in length!
> 
> this one has another graphic corpse description, so fair warning!

Navigating through the actual video feeds doesn’t prove to be as easy as Mason made it sound. After twenty minutes of floundering around, they still haven’t figured out how to switch from the live feeds to old footage, and when Stiles eventually gets up and marches down the hall so that they can actually figure the fucking thing out and get down to business, Mason is nowhere to be found. Fists balled at his side, he marches back into their makeshift office to find Parrish standing right behind Derek’s chair. Amazingly, despite their close proximity, Derek doesn’t look pissed off. They both just look merely frustrated. 

“I couldn’t find Mason,” Stiles says. “Did you have any luck?” 

“Not yet,” Parrish says with a shake of his head. “Wait a second. Derek, click that button again.” Derek clicks the mouse, and another window that looks like a calendar pops up. 

“Finally,” Derek sighs, pushing his chair away from the desk and getting to his feet. “Parrish, you get that brought up on yours. I’ll show Stiles.” 

Once Stiles has sat back down, Derek moves closer than seems strictly necessary; he drapes one arm along the back of Stiles’ chair and leans around him to grab the mouse. After a few moments, he adjusts his arm so that his palm is resting on Stiles’ side, at the top of his ribs. He can feel Derek’s breath on the side of the neck, which makes it very difficult to actually pay attention to what Derek is showing him. Once he’s brought the right screen up, he returns to his own desk. Stiles drops his hand to his mouse and pretends to peer at the screen, even though he’s really taking a moment to try and collect himself. 

“Is everything alright?” Stiles looks over the top of his monitor to find Parrish looking at him with genuine concern. 

“Fine,” Stiles answers with a nod. “I just wanna get this over with.” 

“Well, we better get started then.” If it was coming from anyone else, it would feel like a reproach, but coming from Parrish, it doesn’t even feel like gentle chiding and, for that reason alone, Stiles feels compelled not to ignore it. 

He wasn’t exactly expecting the job to be quick, but it quickly becomes clear just how difficult finding anything worthwhile is going to be. For starters, it’s difficult to even nail down what _time_ they should be looking at; Stiles had been too busy keeping Isaac from bleeding out in his lap to look at his watch, and Derek can only estimate that it was sometime between two and three o’clock in the afternoon. It’s a relatively narrow window, but that’s still an hour of footage they have to watch for each of the cameras. Stiles fast forwards, but he’s afraid to make the video go too quickly, just in case he blinks and misses the van. 

After only ten minutes of staring at the monitor, his head starts pounding. 

All three of them strike out, and Parrish pulls a chocolate donut out of the brown paper bag, sighing loudly. 

“Are you sure it was between two and three o’clock?” Parrish asks, rubbing at his face with his free hand. 

“Maybe,” Derek mutters. “I can’t remember. There should be a transcript of the call I made to 911 in our files. Maybe I should call the detachment and get someone to look for it.” 

“Good plan,” Stiles says, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes. Footsteps cross behind him and, for the briefest of moments, he feels fingertips skim along the back of his neck as Derek leaves the room. 

“I’m sorry I dragged you into this,” he says to Parrish, rubbing at his eyes. “I’m sure you probably have a dozen other things you could be doing.” 

“It’s fine,” Parrish replies. “Really. I want to solve this case too. Probably not as much as you do, but still.” 

“What do you mean?” Stiles asks, trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible. It won’t do to piss Parrish off or scare him away, not when he might be the only thing between them spending six hours searching through the tapes and six _days_.

“Oh,” Parrish says, and he sounds embarrassed enough that Stiles cracks open one eye. There’s a slight pink flush on Parrish’s cheeks, and his gaze is directed off to the side. “Because of what happened to your informant. What happened to Isaac.” 

“How do you know his name?” Stiles snaps to attention so fast that he almost topples forward and smashes his chest into the edge of the desk. His dad always taught him to carefully keep his informant’s real identities shielded and, as far as he can remember, he’s never violated that principle, not unless it was absolutely necessary.

“Sometimes you say things that I don’t think you mean to when you’re exhausted,” Parrish says apologetically, with a slight shrug of his broad shoulders. “But don’t worry. I'm not going to tell anyone who he is.”

“Well, thanks for that,” Stiles says, sighing as the tension rushes out of his body as quickly as it arrived. 

“No problem.” Parrish smiles slightly before he turns back to his monitor. Stiles keeps his eyes fixed on the back of Parrish’s head, not because he wants to creep him out, but because there isn’t really much else _to_ look at in the room. While he’s staring, he wonders how Parrish would react if he told him that he slept with Isaac, that he’s slept with more of his informants than not. He can feel the confession sitting on the tip of his tongue, ready to spill out. 

At the last moment, he manages to bite his lip and tuck it back into his mind. There's being reckless, and then there's outright committing career suicide, and he's pretty sure telling Parrish all of that would firmly fit into the latter category. 

Derek returns a few moments later. Stiles catches his gaze and then watches as it slips over to Parrish, like he’s searching for some kind of sign that something happened between them while he was out of the room.

“I called 911 just after three thirty,” he says begrudgingly. “I was wrong about the time.” 

“It happens,” Parrish shrugs. “Hard to keep track of stuff like that in the heat of the moment.”

“Indeed,” Derek mutters, his blank slate of a face turning into something hard and stony. It would almost be laughable, if Stiles wasn’t worried about Derek possibly slipping between their desks and wrapping his hands around Parrish’s throat. 

“Let’s get back to it then,” he says, clearing his throat to snap Derek out of it and swiveling back around to his monitor. “Time’s ticking.” 

Once they move the footage forward to three thirty, they strike gold after only five minutes. When the van first flickers onto Stiles’ screen, his eyes move past it automatically, but when he snaps back to attention and realizes exactly what is disappearing out of the frame of the jerky video, he slams the pause button. 

“Holy shit, I found it,” he says, fingers skittering over the keys until he finds the command to rewind. Parrish and Derek both jump up from their desk and lean close on either side, both of them with one hand braced on the desk. Stiles can feel the body heat rolling off both of them, and the clashing scents of their colognes and aftershaves duel for space in his nose. It’s overwhelming, and not in a good way, so he breathes through his mouth as he pauses the feed again. 

“There,” he says. “That’s them.” 

The feed is paused on the white van flying out of the back entrance to Isaac’s apartment complex, frozen in mid-lurch over a speed bump. The sliding door on the right side is hanging half-open, and while it’s too dark to see inside, there’s a slightly blurred shape hanging out of it that looks suspiciously like a bloodied hand. Although the image has been shot from the traffic light across the intersection and is in black and white, there’s still enough light for Stiles to see the license plate on the front of the van. The quality of the image isn’t great, but it’s enough for him to feel fairly strongly that he can write down the number accurately. 

He rummages through the top drawer of the desk, grabs a pen and a yellowed receipt, and slams them flat on the desk. 

“Tell me what you two see there,” he says, pointing at the license plate so vigorously that he jabs the computer monitor. 

“5UMH719,” Parrish says. 

“Same here,” Derek says, and Stiles just barely resists the urge to thrust his fist into the air. It’s definitely too early to get his hopes up, but it’s _finally_ something concrete that they can go on, something that isn’t just a theory and a string of _maybes_ and _what-ifs._

He quickly scrawls the license plate number on the receipt, recaps the pen, and tosses it across the room, where it ricochets off of the wall. While he doesn’t want to assume that they won’t be spending another few hours in this place, if they can figure things out using the license plate number, it’ll save them hours of boredom and effort. 

“Let’s get this number to Danny,” he says, dialing Danny’s number and putting him on speaker, “and see if he can tell us anything.” 

Danny sounds more than a little annoyed that Stiles is requesting his help _again_ , but Stiles just pins that on the fact it’s almost quitting time. Before he can complain too much, Stiles asks him to do a search on the license plate number. 

“That license plate number is registered to a 2003 red Toyota Corolla,” Danny answers after a few moments. “The owner is listed as Deucalion Abernathy, from here in town.”

“What the fuck?” Stiles asks incredulously. “Are you sure that you didn’t type it in wrong?” 

“Are you _seriously_ asking me that?” Danny snaps. “I’m sure. Look, you want the guy’s address or not? Maybe he knows something about whoever switched the plates on his car to the van.”

It's a good point, and Stiles has to grab another pen from the desk to write down the address. Once he's done, he hangs up.

“Maybe he did it himself,” Derek muses aloud. “He could be another cult member.” 

“Either way, I guess we should check him out. Can’t say that I’ll miss this place,” Stiles says, gathering up the trash on his desk and tossing it into the garbage can. “Fingers crossed that we won’t have to come back.” 

“Do you need me for anything else?” Parrish asks. “I can keep going through footage if you want.” 

“No,” Derek snaps.

“I think we’ll be good for tonight,” Stiles responds. While Parrish picks up his own garbage, he glances over at Derek and _glares_. “But if this doesn’t pan out, we’ll probably be back here tomorrow, and some help would definitely be appreciated. Unless you have another case you need to work on.” 

“Nothing urgent,” Parrish says. “I’m going back to the detachment. Call me if you need me.” 

“Will do,” Stiles says. Parrish shoots him one last smile before he leaves the room. As soon as his footsteps fade away, Stiles spins back around and almost collides with Derek’s chest. 

He didn’t even hear the bastard move. 

“What is your problem?” he asks, taking a step backwards. 

“This again,” Derek says, rolling his eyes. “I told you this morning, I don’t have a problem.” 

“Well, you’re certainly not acting like it. You’re acting like someone is infringing on your territory.”

“Who, _Parrish_?” Derek scoffs, mouth curling into a smirk that Stiles wants to punch off his face. After all this time, Derek is still such a mystery to him. Every facet of his personality that is revealed seems completely unable to reconcile with the others, like he’s four different people stuffed into one body. 

“Yeah, _Parrish_ ,” Stiles spits. “You’re telling me that you’re more worried about Danny hitting on me than Parrish?” Derek doesn’t say anything in response, but thunderclouds form across his face, and his hands ball into fists at his sides. “What I don’t get,” Stiles continues, moving closer until they’re truly toe to toe, “is why you weren’t concerned about Isaac. I _was_ actually fucking him, after all. I haven’t slept with Danny or Parrish.” He lets a few long seconds pass by before he drops the bait. “Yet.” 

Just as he expected, Derek takes it. 

“It was Isaac’s _job_ to fuck you,” he says, hissing the words through his teeth. With that, he storms from the room. His footsteps echo down the hallway, and when he reaches the door leading back to the reception area, Stiles hears it slam into the wall with a loud bang. 

He doesn’t know whether to laugh or fume. 

He gathers up the rest of his crap and follows Derek out the door. The receptionist desk is empty when he steps back into the main lobby, and the overhead lights have been turned off, plunging the room into shadows. He exits into a day that has grown considerably darker; towering clouds the color of steel wool have infringed upon the sun’s territory, promising rain to come. Almost every car in the parking lot has disappeared, except for a few service trucks parked on the edge of the lot and one beige sedan with rust spots dotting the body. Derek is leaning against the side of the Camaro, arms crossed over his chest, staring off into the distance like he’s having an epiphany or like he’s trying very hard to ignore Stiles’ existence. 

“I know the street that the guy lives on,” Stiles says as he makes his way down the stairs, thumping his phone off the flat of his hand. “It’s about half an hour away. One of the newer subdivisions behind the Walmart.” Newer isn’t exactly the most accurate description for the neighborhood; they’ve actually been standing for a number of years now, out behind the big box stores in neat lines and curves, each house a mirror image of the one that came before it. Each of the streets have sickly sweet names, like Pine Lane or Wildflower Drive, even though there isn’t a pine or a wildflower to be seen for miles in any direction. He’s always tried to avoid venturing into them whenever possible; it always takes forever to find whatever site he’s been called to, since every goddamn house looks the same.

Derek doesn’t say anything. He just nods and climbs into the Camaro. Stiles thinks about making a crack about driving, but decides better. He simply slides into the passenger seat and settles in for the undoubtedly silent, awkward ride. 

It turns out exactly as he expected. Aside from providing Derek with directions, neither of them say a single word. For once, he doesn’t feel the urge to fill the silence. He simply sits and, when he isn’t paying attention to the street signs to make sure that they don’t get lost, he watches Derek for any sign that he wants to say something. 

He doesn’t get one.

With the traffic, it takes them forty minutes to make it to the guy’s house. It’s at the very edge of the suburb. Stretching out behind it, glimpsed through gaps in the wooden fences separating the houses from each other, is miles of undeveloped land. It’s a wasteland of sandy soil, deep holes and surveying posts but, although there’s a cursory resemblance to the land behind Stiles’ apartment, he knows that this land will be developed without a doubt. It’s only a question of when.

They park against the curb across the road from the house. On the surface, it doesn’t look like anything special; it’s two stories high, like the rest of the houses on the street, and just as narrow. The dark brown tiled roof comes to a sharp peak, and the rest of the house is painted a wholly inoffensive beige. The only sign of any color is the bright yellow door and the curtains dangling over the windows. There’s an attached single car garage that’s closed up tight, and the fence separating it from its neighbors on either side is tall and straight.

All in all, it looks so goddamn typical that Stiles almost wants to throw up. 

But when he starts looking more closely, he realizes that something isn’t quite right. The rest of the houses on the street have manicured lawns clipped meticulously short, but the grass on Abernathy’s lawn is half a foot high and parts of it are yellowing and dying, the _natural_ color of a California lawn. The mailbox at the end of the driveway is crammed with uncollected mail; even with the door latched, Stiles can see corners of envelopes poking out.

They’re small details, and there could be normal explanations for them. Maybe the guy simply doesn’t want to mow his lawn or water his grass. Maybe he’s protesting against the rules laid down by the local homeowner’s association. Maybe he’s on vacation and forgot to ask someone to pick up his mail. Maybe he didn’t _have_ anyone to ask. 

If the guy wasn’t connected to their case, Stiles would give more weight to those possibilities, but since everyone they’ve come across that has been even tangentially connected to the cult has been involved, attacked, murdered, or abducted, it stands to reason that this guy will be in the same boat.

“The mailbox,” he says, leaning towards Derek and pointing at it. “See it?” 

“I see it. There’s something wrong with the front door too.” Stiles leans even closer, until his chest is touching Derek’s shoulder. The door looks crooked on its hinges, like it’s not sitting right within the frame, like someone forced it open, someone who didn’t care to set it straight again.

“You know there’s probably something waiting for us in there,” he says, chest still pressed against Derek’s shoulder. “Maybe not for us specifically, but something nonetheless.” 

“Yeah,” Derek says with a nod. “Should we call in backup?” Part of Stiles’ mind says yes; after all, there’s always the chance that the place could be just as booby trapped as Kincaid’s cabin in the woods had been. Hell, there might even be a cult member sitting inside, watching them through one of the windows, ready to jump them. 

But he thinks that both of those are distant possibilities. What’s more likely is that this guy was just collateral damage; maybe he caught them trying to steal his plates and suffered the consequences. Stiles has a feeling they haven’t been back to this place in weeks. Maybe they’ve forgotten about it.

“No,” he finally says, shaking his head. “I don’t think this place serves any purpose in their grand plan.”

“We should still be on our guard,” Derek says, unexpectedly curving his hand around Stiles’ waist and pulling him close with a firm tug. Stiles’ knee painfully bashes off the console separating them, but he doesn’t pull back. Instead, he’s hit with the urge to just keep moving, to scramble over the console until he’s fully astride Derek’s lap. It would be a tight fit, but he’s definitely been in worse spots; he’s pretty sure that he’d have just enough room to sink his knees into the soft leather on either side of Derek’s hips. 

There’s likely not enough room for full-on sex, but there’s probably enough room for Derek to yank Stiles’ button-up from the back of his pants so that he can slide his broad hands and long fingers up Stiles’ back. There’s probably enough room for Stiles to shove Derek’s well-worn leather jacket off his shoulders so that he can get his lips on Derek’s neck, so that he can mouth at his jaw until his skin goes raw from stubble burn. 

Cleaning up in such a small space would definitely be difficult, and he’s not sure if there’d be any way for him to avoid getting come on his trousers, but he can’t say that he’d mind. A little bit of mess has never really bothered him. 

It’s pretty clear that Derek is thinking the same thing, or something similar. His mouth is slack, and his eyes are clouded over with something that couldn’t be farther from jealousy. His grip on Stiles’ hip tightens. The fabric of his shirt bunches between Derek’s long fingers, pulls out of his trousers just far enough for Derek’s thumb to actually brush against his hipbone. It’s a barely there touch, but it still feels like a lightning bolt travels through Stiles’ entire body. When he unconsciously licks his lips, Derek’s eyes drop to his mouth. 

“If we weren’t parked here,” Derek begins. His voice has dropped lower than Stiles has ever heard it, and it goes straight to Stiles’ cock, makes him strain against the damnable zipper of his pants. He tugs Stiles even closer, until one of his thighs is pulled up and over the console. 

“What about if we weren’t parked here?” he asks, raising an eyebrow in an approximation of Derek’s favorite gesture as he drops his hand to Derek’s thigh. His ankle is grinding against the gear shift, but he doesn’t dare move, not yet. He knows that they can’t do anything here, for so many damn reasons (not least of which is the possibility that someone could come out of their house at any moment and take a potentially career-ending picture of them), but he’s not ending the moment until he absolutely has to. 

“I’d get you in the backseat,” Derek continues, voice somehow dropping even lower, “and I’d finally fuck you. Just the way you want me to. Until you feel like you can’t breathe. Until you can’t think of anything but me, until you can’t say anything but my name.” Stiles bites down hard on his lip and digs his fingers into Derek’s leg. He knows that he shouldn’t be so damn _gone_ already, not when Derek’s really barely touched him, but he can’t help it. Dirty talk has always knocked him on his ass, even when it’s blatantly fake, _especially_ when it isn’t, and it’s more than clear that Derek isn’t faking.

He should hate the guy. Truly, he should. Regardless of the glimmers of a good person that have come through, like their moment discussing their parents or his bright smile when Lily had waved at him, Derek's still an asshole with some incredibly unresolved jealous issues, and, by all rights, Stiles should be telling him to fuck right off until he learns some boundaries. 

But he doesn’t want to do that. He doesn’t want to tell Derek to fuck off, because that would mean losing moments like this, moments like what they’d had at the rest stop on the way back from Erica and Boyd’s commune. 

That probably makes him selfish, but fuck it. It certainly wouldn’t be the only selfish thing he’s done in his life.

“I hate you,” he mutters, dropping their foreheads together and taking a deep breath. When it isn’t mingling together with Parrish’s, the smell of Derek’s aftershave makes his head spin in the headiest way. When he glances down, Derek’s smirk has softened slightly around the edges, although it still promises all sorts of wonderfully horrible things. 

“I know,” he murmurs, breath ghosting against Stiles’ mouth before he closes the space between them, crushes his mouth against Stiles' so hard that it knocks the air from Stiles’ lungs, makes him crumple forward against Derek. He slides his hand around Derek’s thigh as far as he can, until it just meets the curve of his ass, and the bite he gets for the action only makes him want to do it again. Derek pulls away all too soon, and while Stiles’ aching lungs certainly appreciate the pause in the proceedings, the rest of him wants to scream with frustration. 

“I meant that,” Derek says, smirk sliding away from his face. “What I said. All of it.” 

“I know,” Stiles replies, bumping his nose against Derek’s, “and I’m going to hold you to it. Like a promise.” 

“I'm not going to break it. But we have a job to do first.” Stiles nods and takes a moment to gather his breath before he slides away from Derek’s lap. His ankle is sore from rubbing against the gear shift, and he’s pretty sure that he’s going to have one hell of a bruise on the curve of his knee, but he’ll deal with that later. For now, Derek is right. They need to go see what’s on the other side of door number one. 

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Derek says, and Stiles doesn’t miss the way he reaches down to his lap and adjusts himself in his trousers. “Just in case they do have the place rigged up.” 

“When have I ever been known to do something stupid?” Stiles replies without missing a beat, lifting his hips up so that he can stuff his shirt back into his pants and fix his holster.

“Far too often,” Derek mutters. Stiles takes a few more moments to make himself as presentable as possible and, when he’s done, he turns to Derek and mockingly hold his arms out.

“Is it obvious that I was _this close_ to getting fucked?” he asks. Derek tilts his head slightly as he looks at him and, after a moment, reaches out and runs his fingers through Stiles’ hair. 

“Better now,” Derek answers after he’s pulled away, although Stiles knows damn well even without looking in a mirror that he looks the exact same. “Let’s go, before I pull you back over here.” 

“Would that really be such a bad thing?” The look in Derek’s eyes indicates that he’s really considering it, and before they can fall back into a spiral, Stiles steps out of the car. 

The street is empty. The first drops of rain are starting to patter against the pavement, and the sun has been almost completely eclipsed by the clouds. It’s only a matter of time before the whole area starts to stink like wet asphalt so, after glancing both ways and squaring his shoulders against the rain striking the back of his neck, Stiles crosses the street. Derek joins him seconds later, one hand resting just beside his holster. 

“I guess we should knock first,” Stiles says, treading carefully on the walkway. “Just in case we’ve read this totally wrong.” 

“Maybe,” Derek says, although he sounds far from convinced, and Stiles doesn’t blame him. 

The door is set back in an alcove, with just enough room on either side for them to stand. There’s a gap of approximately two inches at the top of the frame, where the door should be flush with the jamb. Splinters litter the faded doormat, and there’s a dark smear near the doorknob that could conceivably be blood. 

Stiles attempts to take the more dangerous position, on the side of the door with the knob, where it would be easier for someone to lean out and shoot, but Derek beats him to it. Slightly disgruntled, he settles for rapping his knuckles off the wood. They wait twenty seconds, but there’s no indication that they’ve been heard. No lights flicker inside, no footsteps echo down the hallway. He tries again, rapping harder this time, and once more they wait. Once more, there’s no response and, after a third time, Stiles catches Derek’s eye. 

“Probable cause?” he says quietly. The wind is starting to pick up, and for a moment he thinks that it may have carried his words away, but Derek nods. He pulls a pair of disposable gloves from the inside of his pocket and tugs them on with a sharp snap before he pulls his gun out, fingers locking around it. Stiles does the same thing and nods at Derek when he’s ready. Only then does Derek reach for the door and push it open, flattening himself against the wall as he does so. 

More waiting. After thirty seconds, nothing happens. No one comes to the door, and no booby traps go off. Stiles takes the lead as they step inside, gun raised just above waist level. 

The door opens into a short, dark hallway. Normally, if there wasn’t a storm threatening to hit at any moment, there would be enough sunlight for Stiles to have a pretty good view of the rest of the house, but thanks to the dark clouds outside, it feels like walking into a cellar. It’s almost as cold as well; based on how a draft follows them as they walk down the hallway, Stiles is pretty sure that there’s a window open somewhere in the house. 

Once they walk in a little further, Derek flicks on a miniature flashlight from another pocket in his jacket. Stiles does the same, taking it from the special slot in his holster. The beams don’t penetrate very far into the gloom, but it makes him feel less like he’s about to walk into a trap as they proceed further into the depths of the place. 

The home is sparsely decorated. There are no rugs covering the hardwood floor, and not a single photo hangs on the walls. The decorations that do exist seem to be of decent enough quality, but none of them have any real personality. There’s a stack of opened bills on a table just inside the front door, which the wind quickly scatters, but there’s no real sign of anything that would make the house _homey_. 

If Stiles was so inclined, he could take pictures of the place and exhibit them in some gallery under the title _Pictures of a Lonely Man._

The first floor of the house contains all of the components Stiles expects. A living room opens off the hallway on the right, and it’s quickly followed by a dining room on the left. As they proceed further towards the back of the house, more rooms follow; a kitchen, a den that looks virtually unused, a laundry room tucked under the stairs. There’s a back door in the kitchen, but when Stiles tugs on the handle, it’s still firmly locked. 

“Guess they left the way they came in,” he says quietly, and Derek nods. They backtrack to a larger door set into the hallway, which, if Stiles has guessed the layout of the place right, should lead into the attached garage. The handle opens easily, but they both step aside once they pull the door open. After thirty seconds of silence broken only by the sound of Stiles’ heart beating in his ears and the wind whipping down the hallway, they both step into the garage. 

Stiles’ flashlight immediately catches on something red and, when he moves the beam from side to side, the _something_ quickly reveals itself to be a car. 

“That’s the car,” he says, stepping around to the front of the car and finding the correct company’s logo embedded into the front grille. The front license plate is hanging slightly askew, only three of the four corners attached properly. Stiles crouches so that he can get a better look at the number on the plate. “4SAM123,” he reads aloud. “What do you want to bet this is the plate for a white panel van?” Derek doesn’t answer. Stiles can hear him moving around at the rear of the vehicle, but after a moment, his footsteps come to a stop. 

“Stiles,” he says, voice totally flat. “Come back here.” As Stiles twists around to get back to his feet, the beam of his flashlight passes over a darker spot on the floor, near the door of the garage. 

“Be there in a second,” he says, duck walking over to the dark patch. On first glance, it looks like it could just be motor oil, but when Stiles leans in closer, close enough for his flashlight to almost touch it, it quickly becomes clear that the stain isn’t black enough for that. It’s deep red, almost brown, and while it’s concentrated in one particular spot, there are smaller drops of it sprayed across the concrete. 

“There’s blood back here,” he calls out.

“I’m not surprised,” Derek answers. “Get back here.” His voice isn’t flat this time; rather, there’s a note of urgency to it that sends Stiles scrambling to his feet. He circles around the car to the trunk, where Derek is standing, sandwiched between a freestanding shelf and the vehicle. His flashlight is pointed as the trunk’s seam. There’s a dent just above it that looks the approximate size and shape of someone’s head, and more dark stains are smeared along the metal. When Stiles leans closer to get a better look at the damage, he inhales through his nose, and immediately has to try not to gag. 

There’s something rotting inside the trunk. 

“Think we should pop it?” he asks quietly. When he moves his flashlight slightly to the left, he discovers that there’s more than just blood on the trunk. There’s a smear of dark hair, stuck to the metal by dried gore. A white piece of bone glimmers inside the mass of viscera, and the contents of Stiles’ stomach start journeying up his throat. 

“We should do it,” Derek says. Based on how pale his face is, he’s looking forward to it even less than Stiles. “Just in case an animal crawled inside or something.”

“Don’t suppose you have any menthol in your pocket?” Stiles asks, casting the flashlight’s beam around the shelving units, looking for any tool that they can use to pop the trunk. Amazingly, after a moment of ruffling, Derek pulls a tiny container out of one of his internal pockets. “I take it back,” Stiles says, taking the container when it’s offered. “I don’t hate you after all.” Derek simply rolls his eyes and takes over looking around the rest of the garage while Stiles brushes menthol underneath both of his nostrils. After taking only two deep breaths, it’s all he can smell, although he’s not sure if it’ll be able to completely block out the stink undoubtedly waiting for them in the trunk. Derek steps away for a few moments and comes back with a crowbar, which he hands over to Stiles in exchange for the menthol. Stiles waits until Derek has tucked it back into his pocket before he places the flat end of the crowbar into the seam of the trunk, jimmying it slightly so that it fits better. 

“Here goes nothing,” he mutters under his breath, wrapping both hands around the handle of the crowbar and throwing his weight onto it. It pops open without hesitation, and the smell hits them fully in the face. A cloud of flies swarms from the trunk, and Stiles ducks to avoid as many of them as he can. Even through the menthol, he can smell the rot and decay, seeping into every last one of his sinus cavities, and he drops the crowbar to the ground with a clang as he brings his forearm up to cover his nose. 

“Jesus Christ,” he gags. The smell is so thick that he can _taste_ it, and he closes his mouth tightly. Derek hasn’t covered his mouth, but he’s blanched considerably, skin stark white against his dark hair. He brings his flashlight up to point at the interior of the trunk, which prompts Stiles to do the same thing. 

Having not seen a picture of the guy, Stiles can’t be sure if it is Deucalion Abernathy or some other person staring back at them, but whoever it is has been dead for weeks, surrounded by the normal detritus of a trunk; bottles of brake fluid and oil, another crowbar, an air pump for the tires. The body is curled up on its side in the fetal position. His skin is bloated and mottled purple and blue, like a full-body bruise. Much of his soft tissue has been taken care of by maggots, although Stiles has no idea how they got into the car in the first place. His eyes, ears, and nose have been eaten away, leaving gaping holes in his face. His mouth is stretched wide, like he died mid-scream, and his teeth are visible through the holes in his cheek. 

Even with the advanced decomposition, there are two visible wounds on the body. The first is on the side of the head, facing them. The skull has been partially caved in, and bits of white bone are visible through the still intact hair. Where the brains should be, there’s only a dark hole; something else that the maggots took care of. 

The second wound is on the corpse’s stomach, and Stiles has to lean into the trunk to get a proper look at it. Through the remnants of the man’s t-shirt, loops of hole-ridden intestine and gut rest in what would be his lap, skin shredded by what looks unmistakably like claw marks. 

Stiles is positive that they didn’t come from a wild animal.

“Do you think he was alive when they did that?” Derek asks, brandishing his flashlight at the latter wound.

Stiles shudders at the thought.

“I sure as fuck hope not,” he says, lowering his flashlight back to his side and walking back towards the door leading into the house. “Let’s call it in.”


	22. Chapter 22

While they wait for backup to arrive, they investigate the second floor of the house. It contains two bedrooms and a bathroom, and they find nothing of interest on their cursory sweep. Once that’s done, they return to the ground floor and wait just inside the front door. The storm has kicked up considerably; there’s no thunder and lightning as of yet, but the dark clouds overhead seem to promise that it’s only a matter of time before it sweeps in. 

“That guy didn’t do anything to them,” Stiles says after a few long moments of silence. His voice almost disappears underneath the throes of the wind. “They could have just knocked him out and stolen his plates.” 

“They killed him because it was fun,” Derek says, and Stiles nods. Killing the others, killing Ennis and Irving and trying to kill Isaac, made sense in the grand scheme of things, but this had been totally unnecessary. 

They’d killed him simply because they _could_.

After another ten minutes, a number of detectives from the detachment arrive and start securing the scene. Derek give them a brief description of how the scene relates to their present case and, while they’re talking in the hallway, Stiles spots the coroner’s van pull into the driveway. Up and down the street, curtains twitch as curious neighbors look outside for a glimpse of something gory or gruesome, and he has to resist the urge to brandish the middle finger at every last one of them. 

Instead, he leads the coroner, followed by a team of technicians carrying sacks of equipment, into the garage. 

“He’s in the trunk?” he asks. Stiles nods and the man immediately goes to work, barking out orders as he snaps on a pair of latex gloves. Stiles leaves him to it; until the body has been moved to a morgue and some conclusions have been drawn, there’s nothing more that he can do about it. 

He finds Derek standing on the lawn, hands in his pockets, soaked from the rain. The other detectives have already started knocking on front doors, starting with the house immediately across the way. For the time being, there’s really not much else that they can do; the scene has been sealed off, and they’re just as likely to get in the way as they are to actually help. 

“Do you want to get out of here?” Stiles asks, nudging Derek gently with his elbow. Derek jolts slightly, like he’s been pulled out of a reverie, and nods. 

“Yeah,” he says, running one hand through his wet hair, pushing it away from his forehead. “Definitely.” 

Stiles tells the detective that they assigned the scene to that they’re leaving and crosses the street to join Derek in the car. He’s tossed his sodden jacket into the backseat, and his shirt is clinging to the broad swoop of his shoulders and the flat plane of his stomach. Water droplets are coursing down his cheeks and nose. After slamming the door on both the storm and the crime scene, Stiles leans across the seat and does his best to push Derek’s hair out of the way again. His efforts are a little more successful than Derek’s had been, but the finished result still looks a little ridiculous. Derek shoots him a quick smile, but he still seems distracted, and while it could just be from the sight of Abernathy's corpse in the trunk, he somehow suspects that it’s something beyond that. 

If it’s going to somehow impact their case, it’s his duty to figure out what the fuck it is. 

“Are you alright?” he asks cautiously.

“I was just thinking about Erica and Boyd,” Derek answers, staring out the windshield. "About how we might find them like that too.” 

“Fuck that,” Stiles replies. He can see the terrifying glower swarming across Derek’s features, and he scrambles for the rest of his words before Derek reaches across the console and strangles him. “That’s not going to happen, alright? We’re going to find them.”

“You don’t know that,” Derek sighs. Stiles’ first instinct is to grab him by the shoulders and shake him out of his misery, but he’s pretty sure that will only end in rage. So he forcibly reels himself in when it comes to his tone, although the words that he says remain the same. 

“You’re right,” he says with a shrug. “I don’t. Not for sure. But what’s the alternative? Just sit here and think about how they _might_ already be dead? If we start thinking like that, where’s our motivation to actually get off our ass and do something? Trust me, I know that false hope feels useless, but it’s better than nothing. We have to keep going.” For a long time, Derek’s eyes stay fixed out the rain-lashed windshield. When he finally does move, he nods, and something almost resembling the infancy stage of a smile floats across his mouth. 

“You know, you’ve changed,” he says quietly, turning his head to look at Stiles. “Since we first started working together.” 

“Bullshit,” Stiles scoffs. “If anyone’s changed, it’s you. Whatever happened to Mr. _’I don’t fuck my partners?’_ ”

“Shut up,” Derek mumbles, twisting the key in the ignition. The Camaro roars to life underneath them, and the windshield wipers start making short work of the pounding storm. “Want me to drop you off at your car?” 

“I guess so,” Stiles says, craning up at the gray sky as they pull away from the curb. It doesn’t look like the storm is going to peter off any time soon. Not that it matters; his evening plans, like always, are non-existent. He’s sure that if he gave Scott a call, he’d be able to join them for dinner, or he could give his dad a call and ignore the slur in his voice, _or_ he could spend yet another evening sitting in front of the television, flipping through books that he’s read before or doesn’t have the attention span to tackle. 

Or, he thinks as he glances beside him, he could do something else. Derek _had_ promised to fuck him, after all, and if there’s one thing that would successfully take Stiles’ mind off the case for a few minutes, it would be sex. 

“Do you want to come over?” he blurts out. “I might have some coffee buried in my cupboard. Might even be able to rustle up some food.” 

“I doubt that,” Derek says with a disbelieving snort. “But sure. I can drop you at your car, go pick up some food, and meet you back at your apartment, if that works.” 

“Yeah,” Stiles replies, “for sure.” 

Free food _and_ sex. 

Maybe he’ll even be able to sleep tonight.

&.

Once they pull into the parking lot of the detachment, Stiles turns his damp collar up and wraps one hand around the door handle. 

“See you in a few minutes,” he says, taking a deep breath and dashing out into the night. 

By the time he makes it inside, his shirt is plastered to his back, and his hair is flattened to his forehead. He roughly shoves it away from his face as he heads down the hallway to the technician’s room. Danny’s shift ended hours ago, but Stiles is familiar enough with most of the night shift guys, and he gives one the plate number that they found in the garage and asks them to place any information they find on it on his desk for the morning. After that’s done, he quickly stops by the bullpen. The place is fairly quiet; the overhead lighting has been turned off, and the space is marked by the dim glow of desk lamps in various cubicles. Stiles waves to a few people that he knows on his way to his own cubicle. There’s nothing urgent that he has to deal with, and he leaves almost as quickly as he arrived, passing by Parrish’s empty desk on his way out. 

He gets soaked again as he crosses the parking lot to his car, and water runs into his eyes as he slams the creaking door behind him. It’s been literally days since he’s actually been in his own vehicle, and it’s such a contrast to the Camaro that it almost feels _wrong_ to be in it. The seats are dotted with small holes that are probably going to start leaking stuffing in the near future. There’s a plastic bag that he uses for trash tucked into the passenger seat footwell, but its contents have started to spill out, littering the floor with candy bar wrappers and old coffee cups. The air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror lost its scent a long time ago, and the space smells like a combination of old sweat and dust. 

He _definitely_ misses the Camaro.

When he pulls into the parking lot of his building, Derek is parked by the entrance, lurking like a shadow. Stiles doesn’t bother waiting for him; once he’s out of the car, he bolts for the overhang sheltering the front door, cursing the storm the entire way. Derek takes his sweet time making his way across the parking lot, apparently unperturbed by the rain. There’s a plastic bag hanging casually from his fingers, although there’s no discernible scent coming from it that Stiles can use to identify what they’re having for dinner. 

“It’s sushi, if you’re wondering,” Derek says, smearing rain along his face as he shoves his hair back. “I thought your body might appreciate something that didn’t come from a gas station.” 

“Well, I’m glad to see that you care so much about my body,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes as he unlocks the door. Derek _does_ have a valid point. He can’t really remember the last time he ate something that could be considered a balanced meal, and he hasn’t had sushi in years, usually for lack of funds rather than lack of desire. 

There’s a light out in the hallway leading to the elevators, but aside from that, the building is exactly how he left it. No one has tried to kick down his door, and there’s no sign that anyone attempted to pick the lock. Thankfully, the air in the kitchen doesn’t smell like rotting food this time; the whole place just smells stale and closed up. The television is on at low volume, and Stiles has never been happier that his apartment, shitty as it may be, has all utilities included, because he’s pretty sure that his electricity bill would otherwise be astronomical. 

“I’ll turn the coffee on,” he says, dropping his stuff in a heap by the front door and proceeding into the kitchen. There’s two clean mugs sitting in his slightly battered drying rack, and there’s just enough coffee left for a pot. 

“I think it’s a little neater in here,” Derek says once Stiles has left the coffee to its own devices. “Did you actually clean?” 

“Not technically,” Stiles says, shoving the debris littering the coffee table into one large pile, rather than six small ones. “I did have a bonfire though. Behind the building.” 

“A bonfire,” Derek says flatly and, when Stiles glances back up over his shoulder, Derek is simply staring at him with a raised eyebrow. 

“Yeah,” he replies. “I told you I was going to burn my gross clothes, and I did. You really shouldn’t act so surprised. And I hope you don’t expect me to have any clean plates.” 

“I don’t. I’m aware that you have your limits.” Derek collapses onto the couch, whole body sagging like the air has been punched from him, and drops the bag onto the space that Stiles has managed to clear. “That’s what takeout containers are for.” 

“Well, aren’t you a gentlemen. Give me a second. I need to change out of these fucking clothes.” He’s sure that he could probably get away with just stripping off his clothes and clambering straight into Derek’s lap, but the thought of eating has his stomach rumbling, and his skin is still so damp from the continued assault of the rain that he wants to actually get dry and feel some damn warmth. 

He finds a pair of sweatpants (that might have been Scott’s once upon a time) and a long sleeved shirt with the tags still attached in the back of his closet. The rain has soaked right through his trousers, so he fishes out a new pair of briefs as well, tugs everything on, and stumbles back into the living room scraping splinters from his feet just in time for Derek to pull the last container of sushi from the bag. He’s holding a paper wrapped pair of chopsticks between his fingers and he actually looks concerned, lower lip tugged between his sharp, gleaming white teeth. 

“Do you even like sushi?” he asks, nudging one of the containers with the chopsticks. 

“I’m not _that_ uncivilized,” Stiles responds, flopping onto the couch. “I even know how to use chopsticks. Isn’t _that_ impressive?” 

“Excuse me for caring,” Derek mutters. “Now shut up and eat.” 

Stiles scarfs down sushi until his stomach feels fit to burst, and while he really doesn’t want to move for at least an hour, the smell of room temperature sushi tends to be stomach curdling, so he starts cleaning up. He grabs the plastic bag that the food came in, sweeps the empty containers inside, and takes both the trash and the half-empty containers into the kitchen, where they go into the trash and the nearly-empty fridge respectively. 

“If you want the rest, it’s in the fridge,” he says when he steps back into the living room. “But feel free to leave it behind.” 

“I’m sure you need it more than I do,” Derek replies, curling his fingers around his chipped mug of coffee. “This actually isn’t terrible. Better than the coffee at the detachment.” 

“That’s because I’ve cleaned my machine sometime in the last three years. I think,” Stiles says as he takes a sip of his own coffee. It’s a little too bitter, but he’s far too lazy (not to mention full) to get back up and search for something to sweeten it with. 

For some time afterwards, neither of them speak. The silence feels strange, but Stiles doesn’t feel any pressure to fix it. He simply nurses his fourth (or maybe it’s fifth) cup of coffee of the day and watches the television, feet propped up on the coffee table. Derek does the same. Eventually, his knees splay apart, and one bumps into Stiles’ thigh, but he doesn’t move any further.

The documentary playing soon bleeds into another one. During the first commercial break, Derek leans forward and slides his empty mug onto the coffee table, knocking something off on the other side. Before Stiles can crane forward to see it was (not that it’s likely to be anything important), two of Derek’s fingers land on the curve of his jaw and turn his face away from the television. Stiles drops his eyes to half-mast, waiting for the kiss that’s bound to come, but when Derek doesn’t move to meet him right away, he snaps one back open. 

“Do I got something in my teeth?” he asks, grimacing grotesquely and showing as many of his teeth as possible. Amazingly, Derek doesn’t snort or roll his eyes. He just shakes his head and adjusts the position of his fingers, slotting them underneath the jut of Stiles’ jawbone so that they’re resting against his pulse point. Stiles takes advantage of the apparent pause in proceedings to deposit his own mug on the table. 

“I was just making sure,” Derek says, barely audible over the television. “Making sure that you’re actually into this.” 

“Of course I’m into this,” Stiles replies, dropping his feet from the coffee table and drawing his legs up on the couch so that he’s facing Derek head-on. “Trust me, if didn’t want… this,” he trails off, waving to the space between them, “you wouldn’t be on my couch. Alright?” Derek doesn’t answer verbally; instead, he uses the hook of his fingers under Stiles’ jaw to tug him in closer, to the point where their lips can properly meet. 

Right from the get-go, something feels different. Derek doesn’t make a beeline for his hips, doesn’t try to slide his lips down to Stiles’ jaw. Rather, he seems totally fine with taking his time. One of his hands drops to Stiles’ thigh, but he doesn’t move it any higher. He simply stays still, slowly coaxing Stiles’ lips open with his own. By the time Derek’s tongue _finally_ touches his, the documentary has gone to another commercial break, some loud and obnoxious car advertisement that has Stiles pulling away with a loud groan. 

“That’s enough of _that_ ,” he says, groping out for the remote and turning the television off before he turns his attention back to Derek. His lips are parted slightly, and while Stiles ponders what he wants his next move to be, Derek raises one hand and brushes Stiles’ still damp hair away from his forehead. The touch is as soft as a feather, and Stiles finds himself swallowing past a lump that has unexpectedly taken up residence in his throat. 

He can’t remember the last time someone touched him like this, like they were actually trying to _woo_ him. It’s not that it feels terrible on a physical level, but the fact that it’s coming from Derek has warning bells going off in his head. He’s known for some time that Derek is definitely jealous, but he’d assumed that was purely some kind of fucked up primal impulse. If that’s actually rooted in other feelings, that raises a whole other host of issues, from how they’ll work together in the future to what happens _after_ they solve the case. And beyond that, it means that Stiles is actually going to have to do some deep digging within himself, to figure out how _he_ feels.

Then again, it’s possible that he’s just _severely_ overthinking things. Maybe Derek is just taking his time because the longer things are drawn out, the less he has to actually think about Boyd and Erica. 

Stiles can work with that. He can work with that all night long, if he has to. 

“You _really_ need to get some more sleep,” he says, reaching out and tracing one of the bags under Derek’s eye with his thumb. The words come out far quieter, more hushed, than he intended. 

“This coming from the man who fell asleep on the floor of the conference room last night,” Derek replies, wrapping his long fingers around Stiles’ wrist, thumb pressing into the purple and blue veins pulsing and throbbing underneath his skin. 

“Won’t happen again. Scout’s honor.” 

“You’re damn right it won’t happen again,” Derek says, voice pitching into a tone just shy of a growl. When Derek pulls him back to his mouth, it’s with slightly more urgency, although his hand still doesn’t move any further up Stiles’ thigh. Stiles decides to take matters into his own hands; his knees are starting to protest from being bent at such an unfamiliar angle. The next time Derek pulls back for air, Stiles pushes at his shoulders. 

“Get down,” he mutters. Thankfully, Derek takes the hint, and he reclines back against the arm of the sofa and stretches his legs out. Stiles tugs his shirt off, tosses it in the general direction of his bedroom, and drops down to his hands, hovering just over Derek’s face. One of Derek’s palms flattens against his chest and drags down his stomach, stopping just shy of the waistband of his sweatpants. 

“See something you like?” Stiles asks, plastering on a grin. Derek rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t deny it. He fits his other palm to the back of Stiles’ neck and pulls him back down, sharp teeth catching on Stiles’ bottom lip. Stiles drops down to his elbows, flattening Derek’s hand between his own stomach and Derek’s absurdly defined abs, which he plans on licking a path down someday. He isn’t sure if it’s his actions that get Derek’s fingers to inch just inside the waistband, or if Derek makes the choice himself, but the slightest twitch of Derek’s fingers on the taut skin between his hips makes sparks dance along his nerves. When his fingers slip even _lower_ , Stiles moans against Derek’s spit slick lips and arches into the touch. 

“Fuck,” he sighs, rolling his forehead against Derek’s. He catches a glimpse of Derek’s white teeth as he leans up and tucks his head into the curve of Stiles’ neck.

“Feel good?” he asks, voice a deep rumble that resonates to the very core of Stiles’ being. Stiles tries to answer, but Derek’s teeth latch around the meat of his shoulder and tug gently and, for a few seconds, it becomes next to impossible to think, let alone speak. 

They’re still moving slower than he would like, but this is starting to approach territory that he’s far more familiar with. 

“God, yeah,” he finally manages to say, adjusting his own hands so that they’re flattened against the rising curve of Derek’s ribs. Derek muffles a noise against the side of his neck, yanks his hand out from between their stomachs, slides it around Stiles’ hip and palms at his ass, pulling their hips together. Stiles’ sweatpants rasp against Derek’s trousers, and there’s a slight clink of metal when his belt shifts. Derek’s other hand tightens around the back of his neck, while his teeth drag along Stiles’ jaw. 

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” he mumbles, trying to yank Derek’s shirt from the waistband of his trousers. “C’mon. Help me.”

“Alright.” The surge of movement as Derek abruptly sits up catches Stiles off guard, and he almost falls backwards off the couch. Thankfully, Derek’s grip on his ass keeps him from tumbling off, and he slides his knees around Derek’s hips and starts popping the buttons on Derek’s shirt, combating him to see who can get more undone in the shortest amount of time. 

He’s pretty sure that it ends in a draw.

Derek’s shirt and tie end up on the floor, but before Stiles can reach for his belt, Derek catches hold of his hands and places them on his shoulders. He drops his own to Stiles’ hips and looks up at him through short, coal black eyelashes. Most of the softness has left his face again, replaced with a look Stiles has seen more than a few times in the last twenty-four hours. It’s something between lust and simmering rage. It’s the look Stiles has come to associate with possessiveness.

The warning bells in his head get louder. 

“I don’t like the way Parrish looks at you,” Derek says, smoothing his thumbs along Stiles’ hipbones. “He looks at you like he _wants_ you.”

Stiles bites back a scream of sheer frustration. 

“Look,” he says. He wraps his fingers around Derek’s wrists and, with one swift tug, removes his hands from his hips, so that he’s free up to stand up. “I thought we had this conversation yesterday. This… whatever the fuck this is,” he says dumbly, waving at the gap between them, “it might be more than stress relief. Alright? I’m willing to give you that. But that doesn’t mean you can get away with acting like this.” 

“With acting like _what_?” Derek snaps. He stays sitting down, but his eyes flare bright, and his jawline grows tight. 

“With acting like you fucking _own_ me!” Stiles yells, grabbing his shirt from the floor and yanking it back over his head. “If you’ve got feelings for me, whatever, we can work through that. But, despite what you seem to think, we are _not_ going steady like fucking high school kids. And that means that even if Parrish _does_ want to fuck me, then you’re just going to have to deal with it.” His chest is heaving with the exertion of spitting out the words. He barely notices his hands balling into fists at his sides, but he’s pretty sure that if Derek comes too close to him, he’s going to lash out. 

Derek doesn’t move for a very long time. He doesn’t jump to his feet or try to get in Stiles’ face. He simply stays motionless on the couch, still as a gargoyle, hands curled around his knees like he’s trying to rip out his own kneecaps. When he _does_ move, it’s frighteningly fast. He leaps upward and his hand lashes out, grabbing his shirt off the armrest of the sofa. 

“You want to go running off to Parrish? Go for it. I don’t care what you do, Stiles.” 

“I’m not running to _anyone_ , and that’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told,” Stiles spits out, ragged fingernails digging deep into the meat of his palm. “When you stop acting like such a fucking asshole, feel free to let me know.” Derek shoots him another vicious glare, and it feels like a knife digging into Stiles’ face. Stiles flings it right back at him. 

“You know,” Derek says, his voice low like the thrum of poison through someone’s veins, “you should try to figure out why you push away everyone that actually gives a shit about you. Your dad, Isaac…” He pauses, just for a second, but when he continues, there’s a hint of defeat in his voice that Stiles can’t help but gloat about. “Me. I’m sure that it’s only a matter of time before you end up doing it to Scott too.”

Something _snaps_ in Stiles’ head.

“Get the fuck out of my apartment,” he hisses, striding over until he’s eye to eye with Derek, so close that he can feel his breath against his cheek. A trickle of blood spurts down his palm as his ragged nail shears through the skin. “ _Now_.”

For what feels like an eternity, Derek maintains eye contact with him. It feels like a challenge, like Derek is trying to get him to back down so that he can slink out of the apartment feeling satisfied with himself. Stiles can actually _see_ how the self-satisfied smirk would fit on his face, how Derek’s lips would curl perfectly around it. 

But he has no intentions of ever letting Derek get the best of him, especially not under his own goddamn roof. 

“Did you hear me?” he snaps. “I said get out. Or I’ll throw you off the fucking balcony.”

“You wouldn’t,” Derek says, but his voice slips, just a little.

“You sure about that?” he counters. “The instant you brought Scott into this, you asked for it. Got it?” Derek’s nostrils flare wide, but before Stiles has to repeat the threat again, he nods slowly. 

“Got it,” he answers through gritted teeth. With that, he turns on his heel, snatches his jacket, and storms from the apartment. His footsteps fade down the hallway, and when he reaches the stairwell door, it opens with a grating screech and closes with an earthshaking bang. Once the echo of it has faded away, Stiles sags back onto the couch and lashes out. His foot strikes the coffee table and it tips over, sending everything cascading to the floor. One of the coffee mugs flies across the room and smashes into a dozen pieces. 

He doesn’t know whether to scream or chase Derek down and strangle him. The only thing that he truly knows, as he glances around the room, is that he can’t stay in his apartment, not while the scent of Derek’s aftershave lingers. He could probably head over to Scott’s, but it’s starting to get late, and he doesn’t want to intrude or wake up Lily. 

That leaves him with only one other option. 

Fuck it. There’s always something that needs to be done at the detachment and, if it comes down to it, he can just sleep in the conference room again, his promise to Derek be damned. 

He swaps out his sweatpants for a pair of dark wash jeans that _might_ look professional if he was standing in a dark room with someone with bad eyesight and a black jacket that Scott left behind months ago. There’s an American flag embroidered on the sleeve, and it’s not exactly Stiles’ style at all, but it’s warm and makes him look slightly more put together. 

When he ventures outside, the rain has stopped, but the air is still thick with damp. He pulls Scott’s jacket tight around his torso as he crosses the parking lot to his beat-up car. It’s just as cold on the inside, and even though he’s resolutely trying _not_ to think about Derek, he can’t help but miss the Camaro’s heated seats. 

The streets are still slick with rain, looking like oil in the dim streetlights, and at any moment, he expects to spin out of control. Thankfully, even though he’s definitely going faster than is strictly legal, he makes it to the place in one piece. 

The bullpen is quiet when he strides in. He gives a cursory glance over the room, and his eyes zero in on the dim light radiating above the walls of Parrish’s cubicle. At first, he assumes that Parrish left his light on when he went home, but when he walks over, he’s amazed to see that Parrish is actually present. He’s still in his clothes from earlier in the day, and he’s hunched over his desk, peering at his computer, chin resting on his hand.

“Hey,” Stiles says. “What are you doing back here?” 

“I was bored at home,” Parrish says with a shrug, spinning around to face Stiles. “What about you?” 

“Nothing better to do.” There’s a piece of paper taped to his computer monitor, and he absently rips it off. It’s the registration for the plate that they pulled off Abernathy’s car. It matches a white panel van, and the owner is listed as Kincaid Morris. “Fuck, of _course_ ,” Stiles mutters, crunching the paper between his fingers. It’s yet another dead end; with Kincaid dead, the van could be anywhere. It means that they’re going to have to go back to the traffic bureau and return to combing through the camera feeds, all to find out where the fuck the van went after it picked up Kali. 

It’s a longshot, but it’s the only thread they have left, the only thing that might be able to lead them to Erica and Boyd. That just makes Stiles think about Derek again. He doesn’t really want to talk to him, but he supposes that, as his partner, he’s entitled to know they’ve struck out again. 

“Everything alright?” 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, fishing his phone from his pocket. “Just give me a second. I’ll be right back.” He steps down the hall into the conference room and dials Derek’s number. It rings and rings, and at any moment, Stiles expects it to cut off so that Derek can gloat at him some more. 

But his voice never comes. Instead, the ring cuts off in favor of a creepy automated voice message that announces that the caller he’s trying to reach is unable to answer. When the beep comes, he talks as fast as he can, so that he doesn’t have to deal with Derek possibly picking up. 

“We got a hit back on the plate found in Abernathy’s garage,” he says. “It belongs to our van. It’s registered to Kincaid, and he’s dead, so we’re stuck right back at fucking square one. So I guess I’ll see you at the traffic bureau tomorrow morning. Or whenever.” With that, he hangs up. If he made a few phone calls, he’d probably be able to get back into the traffic bureau tonight and get started on what’s bound to be a few days of slogging, but truthfully, he doesn’t feel like it. He barely has the concentration level for that task when he’s in a half-decent mood, let alone when the snake of frustration is still omnipresent in his stomach. 

When he strolls back into the bullpen, Parrish is thumbing through his phone, but as soon as he realizes that Stiles is back, he looks up. 

“I heard about Abernathy’s body,” he says. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s fine,” Stiles responds automatically. “I didn’t have my hopes up anyways. This case is a fucking gongshow.” He rubs one hand down his face, thinks of collapsing back into his chair, but thinks better of it. Instead, he steps around the partition of their cubicle and leans against the wobbling wall. 

“Is there anything else you can do for the case tonight?” Parrish asks. The cubicle is so damn small that his knee is only inches away from Stiles’, and Stiles finds his eyes dropping to it. 

“Oh, probably,” he replies. “But is there something I _want_ to do for it tonight? Fuck no.” Parrish just nods and leans back in his chair. The movement stretches his legs out further, and this time, his foot taps against Stiles’. 

“Where’s Derek?” 

“I have no goddamn idea,” Stiles mutters and, thankfully, Parrish doesn’t try to pry any further. Instead, he sits back up and scoops his phone off his desk. 

“Feel free to say no,” he says, tugging his jacket off the back of the chair, “but do you want to go grab a drink? Seeing as it doesn’t look like either of us is going to be sleeping anytime soon.” It takes Stiles a moment to realize what Parrish just said. They’ve been working together for years, and they’ve never once spent any time together outside of work. 

“I didn’t know you drank,” he replies.

“I don’t. Not very often, at least,” Parrish says with a shrug of his broad shoulders. “But tonight seems like as good a night as any.”

He’s not wrong. A good stiff drink might just help quench the anger in Stiles’ stomach. At the very least, it probably won’t make him feel any _worse_ , and going out to a bar will be a hell of a lot better than heading back home and trying to deal with the lingering scent of Derek’s aftershave. 

“Do you have heated seats?” he asks with a raised eyebrow and a grin. 

“Yeah,” Parrish answers, mouth twisting with puzzlement. “Why?” 

“Well then, you’re driving,” he replies, grabbing Scott’s jacket from his cubicle and tugging it on. “Lead the way.”


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alrighty y'all. this chapter contains exactly what you expect (and what I assume a good portion of you were dreading) so feel free to skip it if that isn't your thing. 
> 
> on the flip side, the next chapter is my favorite, and I think most of you will like it!

They end up at a bar out near the interstate. It doesn’t look like much on the outside; it’s a low, squat building with dirty windows dotted with flickering neon signs, their glow reflecting in the small puddles lingering in the pitted parking lot. Stiles has been to it a few times; thankfully, it’s considerably cleaner on the inside, and each table usually has a heaping bowl of peanuts to pick at. 

“I pegged you for somewhere a little fancier,” Stiles says as they pull into a parking space near the door, flanked by a huge pickup and a motorcycle. 

“Well, you pegged wrong,” Parrish says with a teasing grin. “You can’t go wrong with free snacks.” 

“Man after my own heart,” Stiles says, stepping out into the damp night air. 

Thankfully, the inside of the bar is considerably warmer. Well-worn booths dot the wall on the right, stretching all the way to the jukebox and the narrow hallway leading to the bathrooms. Large, flat screen televisions dot the walls, and most of the patrons have their eyes fixed firmly on the baseball game currently in progress. Most of the stools along the bar are vacant, but Stiles’ back gives a phantom throb at the thought of not having something to lean against for however long they stick around. 

“Is a booth alright?” he asks. 

“Fine by me,” Parrish replies. “I’ll go grab drinks. What do you want?” 

“Surprise me,” Stiles says with a wave of his hand. Parrish drifts off in the direction of the bar while Stiles makes his way to a booth close to the back. Peanut shells crunch underneath his feet as he slides inside, but the tabletop is free of them, and the bowl sitting in the middle is overflowing. By the time Parrish returns with his long, slim fingers wrapped around two glistening bottles of beer, Stiles has created a small mound of shells on the table in front of him.

“Hope this is alright,” Parrish says, setting one of the bottles down in front of Stiles. 

“I’ll basically drink anything,” Stiles replies. “Well, I mean, I’ll _try_ anything. There’s some shit I’ve drank that I never want to touch again.” 

“Like what?” Parrish asks, thumb circling the rim of his bottle. Stiles is sure that it’s a purely unconscious movement, but his eyes lock onto it, and his throat momentarily goes dry. It’s only when Parrish clears his throat and raises an eyebrow that Stiles remembers he’s supposed to be answering a question. 

“Sorry,” he says. “Long day. One of my informants lives in a commune a few hours from here, and she gave me a jar of moonshine for Christmas last year. Like, an actual mason jar full of the stuff. Felt like it left third degree burns down my throat. Smelled like paint stripper.” 

“Did you drink the whole jar?” Parrish asks, the tendons in his hand flexing as he raises his bottle to his mouth.

“Of course I did,” Stiles snorts. “Beggars can’t be choosers.” He’d just saved it for the nights where he was already drunk enough to not care about taste or feeling. 

He’d always regretted it the morning after, when the crap burned even worse coming back up than it had going down, but still. He’d appreciated the gift nonetheless. 

“What about you?” he asks. “Anything in particular turn you off experimenting?” Parrish takes a moment to consider the question; his eyes flicker up to the ceiling, and the fingers of his free hand tap out an aimless rhythm on the scarred wood of the table. 

“I went to an Italian wedding with a friend of mine once,” he finally says, a grin slowly already spreading across his face. “There were glasses of this clear stuff at all the tables to drink during the toasts. I thought it was water, and by the time I realized otherwise, I was already swallowing.” 

“What was it?” 

“Grappa,” Parrish continues with a full body shudder. “It was like drinking grapes dipped in nail polish remover. I almost threw up on the table.” 

“Well, that sounds suitably traumatizing,” Stiles laughs, taking a swig of ice cold beer. It’s certainly nothing to write home about, but beer is beer, and after the day he’s had, it tastes like manna from heaven. “No wonder that turned you off experimenting.” 

“Not all experimenting,” Parrish replies. “Just when it comes to alcohol.” 

Stiles has to fumble to catch his bottle when it slips from his fingers. The possibility that Parrish _didn’t_ mean what Stiles thinks he means does occur to him, but only for a moment. He’s pretty sure that if Parrish _wasn’t_ talking about sexuality, he wouldn’t be turning pinker with each second that passes. 

“I’m sorry,” Parrish finally says, casting his gaze somewhere over Stiles’ head, cheeks still filled with blood. “That was probably inappropriate.” 

“Parrish, we’ve been working together for four years,” Stiles replies, dropping his elbows onto the table and leaning forward. “You know me. I practically live for being inappropriate.” Parrish’s gaze flickers back down, and Stiles gives him his best smirk before he continues speaking. “Besides, you’re talking to the king of experimenting. Why would I give you shit for that?” 

“Fair enough,” Parrish says. His foot bumps against Stiles’ underneath the table and, regardless of whether or not it’s an accident, it’s perfectly timed. Stiles returns the gesture, using enough force to indicate that it’s very clearly _not_ an accident. “Thanks for the reassurance.” 

“Anytime,” Stiles says, raising his beer and extending his arm across the table. Parrish meets him halfway, and the soft clink as their bottles meet seems as loud as a grenade. When Stiles slouches back onto his own side of the booth, he tilts his head back and drains the rest of his beer in one fell swoop. A conversation starter of his own appears in his mind, and while it’s something he’d normally try and hold back, he figures that, given the circumstances, there’s no better time for him to say it. 

“While we’re on the topic of being inappropriate,” he begins, “I’ve actually been thinking about maybe doing this for a long time.” 

“Really?” Parrish ducks his head slightly and rubs at the back of his neck with one palm. 

“Yep. Like we’re talking years here. No word of a lie.” Parrish’s smile is almost bashful, open and absolutely endearing. How he doesn’t already have a significant other, Stiles truly doesn’t know. 

“Me too,” he finally says, smothering his smile with his beer bottle. Stiles grins and raises his mouth to take a sip of his own drink, only to recall that it’s already empty. He plunks it back on the table and pushes it slightly to the side. 

“Now,” he says, leaning forward slightly, “if you want to get any more inappropriate, I think you’re gonna have to buy me another drink.” 

“I can do that.” 

&.

Parrish buys them two more beers apiece. Stiles takes his time with them, tries to make them last, but by the time he finishes the third, there’s a pleasant buzzing filling his head, and the pile of peanut shells resting at his elbow has grown into a small mountain. 

Despite their earlier confessions, the night has actually been incredibly low-key. Parrish has opened up a little more, become faster and looser with his beaming smile and the brush of his foot against Stiles’ calf, but it’s not like he’s leaned across the table and stuck his tongue down Stiles’ throat. They’ve just _talked_. Parrish isn’t nearly as vanilla as Stiles has suspected all these years; he has actual interests outside of work, interests like movies and books and camping. Apparently he _does_ like the war documentaries that the history channel is always showing, but Stiles only counts that as half of a strike against him. 

He doesn’t feel like Parrish expects him to sleep with him. Maybe he wants it (Stiles knows _he_ certainly does), but he’s fairly certain that if he were to decide that he wanted to go home instead, Parrish wouldn’t complain. It wouldn’t even _occur_ to him to complain. 

That just makes Stiles want to pursue him further. 

By the time they finish up their final drinks, it’s just past midnight, and the bar is winding down for the night. The baseball game is long over, and the televisions are all broadcasting the sports highlights of the day. Most of the customers have already left, and those remaining are starting to settle (or protest the price of) their tabs. 

“Guess we should head out soon,” Stiles says, surveying the rapidly emptying room. 

“I guess so.” Parrish takes one last swig from his bottle and gently sets it down. His mouth opens and closes a few times, and he rubs the back of his neck once more. He’s obviously hesitating over _something_ , and Stiles gently prods his calf with his foot. 

“C’mon, spit it out.” 

“Sorry,” Parrish says. “It’s just that I’m not going to be driving home tonight. I’m going to take a cab back instead. If you want to come with me… well, you’re more than welcome.”

“Can I ask you something?” Parrish nods and leans in closer, and Stiles does the same. The width of the table makes it impossible for them to come together, but they’re still close enough for Stiles to see Parrish’s pupils expand when he continues talking. “Do you _want_ me to come back to your place?” 

“I do,” Parrish answers, with no hesitation whatsoever.

“Good.” Stiles finds himself licking his lips when he sits back up straight. “You call a cab. I’m just going to duck into the bathroom.” 

Once he’s inside, he stops in front of the mirror and grips the edge of the sink, refuses to make eye contact with his own reflection. He doesn’t feel sick, but he needs a moment to work through his thoughts. 

He wants to sleep with Parrish; he’s wanted to sleep with Parrish for _years_ , almost from the first moment he saw him. That’s not the part of his mind he’s fighting with. It’s the part that is inextricably connected to Derek, the part that Stiles really wishes he could simply carve from his brain and toss into the nearest dumpster. 

While the lust floating through his brain is all his, Stiles can’t help but wonder if the reason he’s giving into it is because of what Derek did to him. If it’s because of spite. 

Then again, he’s spent half of his life doing things out of spite. 

Why stop now?

After a moment, he does glance up at himself, only to make sure that he looks presentable. His hair is a disaster, and his skin is sickly pale under the flickering light above the mirror, but he looks about as good as he usually does. He wipes a peanut shell off his shirt, washes his hands and splashes some water onto his face. 

When he steps out of the bathroom, their booth is empty, and their empty bottles have been taken away. The televisions are all off, and the sound of his own feet on the slightly sticky floor seems almost obscenely loud. Aside from the bartender and one patron who appears to be sleeping it off in a booth, the room is empty. Parrish is standing at the front entrance, hands shoved deep in his pockets, and as Stiles crosses the room, he sees that Parrish is chewing on his lip, obviously nervous. 

“Cab should be here in a few minutes,” he says. “Do you want to wait outside?” 

“Depends on how cold it is,” Stiles says, zipping up his jacket. “We can always wait in your car if it’s too bad.” 

“I’m going to be honest,” Parrish says as they slip out the front door into the chilly night. “If we get back into my car, I’m not sure I’ll want to get back out.” It takes Stiles a moment to realize that there’s a hidden implication to the words, and he grins wildly. 

“Would that be such a bad thing?” he asks, shoulder bumping against Parrish’s as he leans in closer. “There’s a place out by the Preserve that works great for that sort of thing.”

“I think I might be a little too old for that,” Parrish replies. After a moment, he turns to face Stiles. “If you change your mind, we don’t have to do anything tonight. Or ever. We can just watch television, drink more beer. Whatever you want.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Stiles belatedly answers, the words catching him more than a little off guard. He’d just assumed that kind of thing was going to remain unspoken. Hearing Parrish say it out loud only makes him more committed to going through with his original plan. 

Besides, even if he does decide to change his mind (which doesn’t seem likely), the portion of his brain that is naturally curious about everything wants to know what the inside of Parrish’s apartment looks like. Stiles knows where he lives; his building is only a few blocks away from Scott’s house, and there’s nothing about it that stands out. It’s neither short nor towering, fancy or falling apart; it’s just yet another bland building nearly identical to the dozens, if not hundreds, of others that dot town. 

But Stiles has absolutely no idea what the inside looks like. He doesn’t know if it’s a bachelor’s or a one bedroom, if Parrish has any pets or a roommate. He can make assumptions; if the state of his cubicle is anything to go off, the place will probably be borderline spotless, but even that isn’t a certainty. 

Curiosity may have killed the cat, and it’s probably going to kill him someday, but he still wants to sate it. And besides, although he’s essentially committed to sleeping with Parrish, he isn’t sure how he’ll react once they’re in an actual, enclosed space together. He isn’t sure if what he _wants_ to do will be what he ends up doing. 

But he wants to find out.

The cab shows up a few moments later, and they pile into the backseat. Parrish slides all the way to the other side but, after a moment of consideration, Stiles decides to take a risk. He has no intentions on actually _doing_ anything in the backseat, but sitting on the other side of the car when it’s clear to both of them what's about to happen seems absurd, so he slides into the middle of the seat once they’re out of the parking lot. If the driver notices, they don’t say anything. Stiles sees Parrish’s head turn towards him but, even when he squints, it’s impossible to make out his facial expression. 

“This alright?” he asks quietly, bumping his knee against Parrish’s. This time, he sees the movement of Parrish’s head as he nods. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs as one of his fine-fingered hands drops to Stiles’ knee. “Completely fine.” 

The rest of the ride is uneventful. Parrish doesn’t try to make a move on him, and Stiles doesn’t press his luck any further. Instead, he spends more time than he cares to admit contrasting the way Parrish’s hand feels on his knee with how Derek’s feels (or, rather, since Stiles doesn’t know if that’s ever going to happen again, the way his hand _felt_ ). Their hands are about the same size, although Parrish has slimmer fingers, but whereas Parrish’s hand has fitted itself to the natural curve of his knee, Derek’s hand had always simply _dropped_ to it, claimed it.

Stiles doesn’t know who he wants to shake more; Derek, for being such a dick, or himself, for not nipping things in the bud earlier. 

Fifteen minutes later, they arrive at Parrish’s building. Stiles clambers out and waits on the sidewalk while Parrish pays the driver. The street is empty in both directions, and when he glances back at the apartment building, most of the windows are dark. When the sound of a door closing bursts through the night behind him, he turns around to find Parrish with his hand half-raised, like he was about to drop it onto Stiles’ shoulder. 

“Sorry,” he says, quickly dropping it and shoving it into the pocket of his jacket. “You still good?” 

“Absolutely,” Stiles answers honestly. “Show me this apartment of yours.” 

&.

Parrish’s apartment is on the third floor, facing the street. When they first step inside, a weak orange glow fills the entranceway from the streetlights outside, but Parrish quickly flicks on a light just inside the door and banishes the glow. 

“You can kick your boots off wherever,” he says, hanging his keys on a pegboard attached to the wall behind the door. “Do you want something else to drink? I’ve got more beer. Or scotch.”

“Scotch sounds like a nice change,” Stiles replies, toeing out of his boots and hanging his jacket on the pegboard beside Parrish’s keys. Parrish steps further into the apartment, and Stiles follows after him, giving the place an glance over. It’s a bachelor’s apartment, although a sizable one. The kitchenette is on the left, while a tall wooden screen separates the main area into a living room and bedroom. The whole place goes beyond being spic and span; it’s army clean, everything tucked into its rightful place. The tasteful rugs dotting the hardwood floor are squared off, and Stiles is wary of stepping on one for fear of disturbing it. Instead, he settles onto the plush couch, sinking down into the marshmallow soft cushions. Glasses clink in the kitchen, and Parrish comes back a few moments later with one full of water and the other with two inches of scotch. 

“Is that enough?” he asks, grabbing two coasters from a stack on the coffee table and setting a glass on each. 

“Should be,” Stiles says, seizing the glass as soon as it touches the coaster and tipping its contents down his throat. It burns the entire way to his stomach, but it does nothing to quell the nerves coursing through his entire body. Reality is setting in, all in one fell swoop, and the realization that this is going to have consequences that might be career changing hits him. 

But that still isn’t enough to make him stop. 

As soon as Parrish sits his glass down on the table, Stiles surges forward and presses their lips together. Parrish makes a surprised sound in the back of his throat, but after a moment, the tension in his mouth drains away, and he presses forward and slides his hand around the back of Stiles’ neck. Stiles doesn’t go any further than parting his lips slightly, not on the first kiss. When he pulls away and flutters his eyes open, Parrish’s are still closed, and his mouth is slack and gleaming with saliva. 

“You alright?” Stiles asks, backing away an inch or so. Parrish quickly nods and tightens his fingers on Stiles’ neck. 

“Come back,” he murmurs, tugging gently. “I was just starting to enjoy myself.”

“Oh, well in that case...” Stiles pulls his legs up onto the couch and swings one over Parrish’s lap, using his grip on Parrish’s shoulder to pull himself into a seated position. “This good?” 

“Yes,” Parrish whispers. His green eyes have darkened considerably, and he smooths one thumb over Stiles’ throat. “Definitely. Please, come back.” 

Stiles doesn’t remember the last time anyone said _please_ to him and meant it. 

It’s as good a reason as any for him to lean back down and claim Parrish’s mouth with his own. 

Parrish’s shirt doesn’t last long. Stiles quickly tears it off, revealing muscles that he’s only seen hints of in the past. He traces his fingers down clenching abs and along the curve of Parrish’s biceps, watches as the muscles flutter underneath his touch. 

“Jesus,” he murmurs. Parrish very endearingly turns bright pink and pulls Stiles back down for another hard kiss. He makes short work of Stiles’ own shirt immediately afterwards, and when his finger traces through the line of hair that trails between Stiles’ navel and the line of his pants, Stiles groans and arches his hips against Parrish’s flat stomach. 

“Maybe we should take this to the bed,” Parrish says. 

“I think that might be the best idea you’ve ever had,” Stiles replies, sitting up straight in preparation for sliding off Parrish’s lap. But before his feet can touch the ground, Parrish slides one arm around the back of Stiles’ thighs. 

“Hold on.” As he stands up, Stiles locks his arms around Parrish’s neck and his legs around his waist. 

“How are you even _real_?” he groans, ghosting his lips against Parrish’s. Parrish just laughs as he effortlessly steps around the coffee table and over their discarded clothes. 

“Sometimes, I wonder the same thing about you.”

Once they step into Parrish’s bedroom, the separating screen blocks out most of the light from the living room. Parrish sets Stiles down on the firm mattress, and Stiles slides back up the bed until his back is against the pillows, which are nearly as firm as the mattress. 

“Can I ask you something?” Parrish asks once he’s joined Stiles on the bed. Stiles nods and splays his knees wider, until they’re slotted into place on either side of Parrish’s waist. “Do you want to top or bottom? Or neither. We don’t have to do that at all, if you don’t want to.” Stiles groans and drops his head back to the pillow. Parrish’s question has made so many wonderful images flash through his mind. Part of him wants to say top, wants to see how Parrish’s back muscles would flex under his skin as Stiles fucked into him. 

But while he’s definitely fantasized about that more than once since they first met, it hasn’t been the prevalent image.

“Bottom,” he says, reaching out and thumbing at Parrish’s swollen bottom lip. “That alright with you?” 

“More than alright,” Parrish promises, his white teeth scraping the end of Stiles’ thumb as he momentarily sucks it into his mouth. “But first, I want to kiss you more.” 

“Fine by me.”

Not that he’s surprised, but Parrish is an incredible kisser, and his mouth is equally as marvelous when it's pressing against Stiles’ neck, laying kisses along the jut of his jawline and his throat and the curve of his shoulder. Even though it’s definitely not work appropriate, Stiles is pretty sure that Parrish has actually left hickeys in a few spots, dark bruises blossoming against his too-pale skin. 

By the time Stiles flips onto his stomach, pants and briefs discarded, the inside of his thighs slick with lube, he feels ready to cry with frustration. He’s never been with someone who insisted on being so damn thorough with prep. Despite his assertions that he was ready, Parrish took his damn sweet time, crooking his fingers just so as he pressed his mouth against Stiles’ throat over and over again. But now, it seems that he’s _finally_ freaking ready, and his fingers skim along Stiles’ hips as he nudges a pillow underneath them. 

“You’re okay like that?” he asks, smoothing one hand down Stiles’ spine, voice soft with concern as his knees knock against Stiles’ when he shuffles forward. 

“Goddamn it, Parrish, _please_ ,” he groans, arching his hips backwards and pushing his forehead into the pillow. 

Stiles doesn’t remember the last time he said _please_ to someone, that he actually bordered on the verge of begging. 

He hopes to God that Parrish doesn’t hold it against him. 

Thankfully, Parrish doesn’t ask again. He simply drops one hand to the mattress beside Stiles’ head and uses the other to line himself up. When he presses in, it’s accompanied by another hard kiss to the back of Stiles’ neck, and Stiles gasps as the air in his chest disappears. 

When it comes to the actual act, Parrish is just as frustrating as he was when it came to prep. He takes his damn sweet time, speeds up in impossibly small increments. Stiles’ fingers twist into the duvet underneath him as he pushes his hips back, wanting it harder, faster. 

Finally, just when Stiles reaches the point where actual hot pinpricks of tears are forming behind his eyes, Parrish does what he’s asked, and the sheer relief that arrives when Stiles comes, hips arching into the mattress, _does_ make him cry. Parrish finishes up soon after with a sharp gasp against the side of Stiles’ neck and the biting press of his fingers into Stiles’ hips. For a few moments, he doesn’t move; he keeps his forehead resting on the back of Stiles’ shoulder, his warm breath puffing against Stiles’ skin. For the first little while, Stiles doesn’t mind, but Parrish’s weight eventually becomes too much, and he starts pointedly wiggling underneath him. 

“Sorry,” Parrish murmurs, leaving one last kiss before he pulls out. He slides off the bed and Stiles hears the quiet, wet snap as Parrish pulls his condom off and drops it into the garbage can on the other end of the bedroom. There’s another snap as Parrish pulls his briefs back up, and the bed sags slightly as he sits down beside Stiles’ right hip. 

“Damn,” he murmurs, running one finger along the line of Stiles’ neck. “I think I got a little carried away.”

“It’s fine,” Stiles says, hissing slightly as Parrish presses his finger into one of the larger bruises, where his throat meets his shoulder. “That’s what concealer is for.” Slowly, he rolls onto his side, wincing slightly. “Can I use your shower?” 

“Sure. There’s extra towels in the cabinet.” 

Stiles gathers his clothes off the floor and heads into the bathroom. It’s just as clean and organized as the rest of the apartment; every surface gleams, and Stiles can see distorted images of his own reflection everywhere he looks. He twists the hot water on and barely has to wait for it to warm up. He jumps in, and the glass on the mirror over the sink quickly fogs up as he rests his head against the tiles, letting warm water soak over his scratched back and nipped up shoulders. 

He definitely doesn’t regret what just happened; frankly, it felt too goddamn good for that. But now that his brain isn’t so damn clouded with lust, he has to face the facts. He used to think that he was good at keeping his sex life and work life separate, but it’s becoming increasingly clear that isn’t the case; Derek, his informants, and now Parrish. While he’d been able to have a more than cordial relationship with Malia after they slept together, she’s really the anomaly. 

He doesn’t want to fuck up his preexisting relationship with Parrish. He’s a good detective and a good friend, and while he’s also _extremely_ good in bed, Stiles doesn’t want that to become what defines their relationship.

And then, there’s the problem of Derek. 

He’s tried not to think about him all night and, for the most part, he’s succeeded. But now that he doesn’t have any physical sensations to distract him, aside from the steaming plumes of hot water, Derek is right back in his head like a thorn stuck in his goddamn palm. The harder he tries to pull him out, the more he just forces himself back in. 

He knows that he doesn’t owe Derek anything. They aren’t exclusive, and he really does have the right to sleep with whoever the fuck he wants. Derek’s reaction shouldn’t concern him, shouldn’t even be a thought in his head. 

But knowing that doesn’t keep the thought from reappearing over and over again. 

He cleans himself up and takes a large swig from the tap to clear the taste of stale alcohol out of his mouth. He pulls his clothes back on, and when he steps back out into the main room, Parrish is sitting on the couch, bare chested but dressed in sweatpants that look exquisitely soft. There’s a movie playing on the television facing the couch, but Parrish doesn’t look like he’s paying much attention to it, because he is very much asleep, head sagging down towards his chest. His lips are parted slightly, and his chest is rising and falling in a steady rhythm. He looks years younger and ridiculously peaceful. 

Stiles envies him. 

He calls for a cab while he pulls his boots on and steps outside to wait. The night has grown even colder, and there’s a fine fog floating through the air. He waits in the alcove of the front door of the building, wishes desperately for a cigarette and tries not to think about Derek. 

It doesn’t work.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so! here we are. enjoy this chapter!
> 
> also, I counted wrong, and turns out there's a total of 29 chapters, which means! only five left to go!

Stiles’ initial plan for the rest of the evening had been to head back to the detachment, fetch his car, and go back home for another beer or two before passing out. But, aside from the fact that he probably shouldn’t be driving (physically, he feels fine, but his blood alcohol level is an entirely different story), he doesn’t _want_ to go home. If he’s there, he’s just going to think about Derek. 

If he’s just going to be thinking about him anyways, maybe he should just head directly to the source. 

He gives the cab driver Derek’s address and, once they pull away from the curb, he drops his head against the seat and simply waits. It’s a short drive, and when he steps out, he has the distinct feeling that he’s going to be killed. The streetlights on Derek’s street are working intermittently at best; some of them are completely dead, while others flicker and spasm. Stiles suspects that he won’t be able to get through the front door of the building without having to call up to Derek’s place first and ruin the surprise, so he decides, on a whim, to try the back door. 

It opens. 

He steps inside and follows the hallway to the lobby. Like the last time he was here with Derek, there’s no security personnel, and he steps into the elevator unscathed. He presses the button for the top level of the building, and as soon as the doors open, Stiles darts out of them. The sliding door to Derek’s apartment, with the security keypad inset in the wall beside it, lurks before him, and it’s here that he’s sure his progress will be halted. 

But when Stiles pulls on the door, it slides haltingly on its track and, before he can lose his resolve, he steps inside. 

He’s greeted with the sight of Derek sitting cross legged on his bed in sweatpants and a white tank top. There’s files fanned around him in a semi-circle, but for the moment, they’ve been abandoned, because Derek is pointing a pistol at him, finger very close to the trigger. 

“Whoa,” Stiles says, stopping in his tracks and raising his hands. “Dude, it’s just me. You should really beef your security up though. Maybe make sure your door is actually locked next time you come home.” 

“What the hell are you doing here?” Derek asks.

“Did you get my message earlier?” Stiles replies. “About the license plate?” 

“Yes,” Derek says shortly, setting the gun on the floor beside the bed. “I did. Is that what you came here to tell me?”

“I came to talk strategy.” He unzips his jacket and drapes it over the nearest surface, which happens to be Derek’s kitchen counter, and tosses his keys and wallet on top for good measure. “To figure out where the hell we’re going to go from here. Aside from back to the traffic bureau.” 

“It’s two o’clock in the morning,” Derek says through gritted teeth, making no move to rise from the bed. “This could have waited.” 

“You’re still awake,” Stiles rebuts, “and pursuing the case, by the looks of it. So why can’t we talk about it now?” 

“I don’t _want_ to talk to you. Have you been drinking? Is that what this is?” 

“I mean, yeah.” Stiles shrugs, crosses the room and plunks himself down on the edge of the bed. “But it’s been a few hours since I actually had anything.” He scrunches his neck to one side, trying to work out a kink that’s formed, but before he can pull his head back straight, Derek’s fingers seize the collar of his shirt and tug _hard_. 

“What the hell is that?” Derek asks, pressing his thumb cruelly into one of the bruises that Parrish left behind. When Stiles glances at him, Derek’s jaw is completely locked, and an entire thunderstorm seems to be passing through each of his eyes.

“C’mon Derek, you’re not stupid,” Stiles says, trying to sound casual. “You know what it is.” He shrugs again, trying to loosen Derek’s grip, but he doesn’t budge. 

“Who?” Derek growls as he curls his hand around the back of Stiles' neck.

“Why does it matter?” Stiles snaps. It’s not that he’s entirely surprised by how things are unfolding, but there’s still something a little alarming at just how _intense_ Derek’s gaze has gotten, like he’s trying to burrow under Stiles’ skin with only his eyes. “I told you earlier, we aren’t going steady.” 

“If we aren’t ‘going steady’,” Derek begins, using his grip on Stiles’ neck to pull him closer, “and if you don’t care about what I think, then why would you come here to gloat? Why would you rub this in my face if you didn’t want to see how I’d react?” 

And the thing is, try as Stiles might, he can’t think of a single answer to that. 

“I don’t know.” It slips out without his permission, and he hates how sickeningly weak he sounds saying it, but it’s too late to bite it back, so he swallows heavily and drapes his hand on top of Derek’s, presses it harder against the back of his neck. “I don’t know.” He expects Derek to goad him some more, to whip out his viciously sharp smirk and shove Stiles off the bed, send him out the door. 

Instead, Derek pulls him in close, and their noses collide before they fall together into a heap of limbs. Files and loose pieces of paper crunch underneath them as they roll across the mattress, both of them fighting to be on top, neither willing to concede. Derek’s mouth is absolutely blistering against his own, claiming it like he’s trying to leave some kind of permanent mark. His teeth sink into Stiles’ bottom lip over and over, and Stiles gives back as good as he gets, until he isn’t sure whose blood he’s tasting. Derek’s fingers tear into his shirt and send it flying into a dark corner of the loft, and Stiles returns the gesture, uses his palms to shove Derek’s tank top over his head. More files scatter every time one of them shifts, fly through the air like bits of snow or ashes.

Derek manages to get Stiles pinned on his back and, fitting his palms to Stiles’ hips so that he can’t move, he starts trailing his mouth down Stiles’ chest, beginning at his collarbone. Each press of Derek’s mouth feels like a punch, and Stiles arches up into each one, wanting more and more. 

This is what he’s been wanting almost from the first day he saw Derek. If he’d known that fucking someone else would have been the catalyst, he would have done it ages ago. 

Derek makes a path down the center of his chest, hands sliding up to run along the curve of Stiles’ ribs, like he’s thinking of splitting them apart so that he can wrap his fingers around Stiles’ heart. He sinks his teeth into the divot of Stiles’ navel, and it feels like an electric shock passes through every one of the nerves in the surrounding skin. His long fingers tear at Stiles’ pants and yank them down his legs with a sound like a bandage being torn away from skin. They go flying across the room as well, along with another explosion of files, and before Stiles can reach for the band of his boxers, Derek swoops back down and presses his mouth to where Stiles is hard. A torrent of curses falls from Stiles’ mouth, and he pistons his hips off the bed and drops one hand into Derek’s completely fucked up hair. Derek shoves his thighs further apart, and his lips actually wrap around the head of Stiles’ cock through his boxers. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Stiles moans, tugging tighter on Derek’s hair. “Fuck, Derek, don’t stop.” 

Apparently, those are words he wasn’t meant to say, because almost as soon as they fall from his lips, Derek does exactly that. He sits back on his knees and, hands still resting on Stiles’ thighs, simply _stares_ down at him, expression frustratingly inscrutable, eyes huge and wide. Stiles groans and bucks his hips again, just in case Derek is looking for more of a reaction, but his face doesn’t change at all. 

“Derek, what the fuck do you want from me?” he asks, shoving a pile of folders off the edge of the mattress. “What do you _want_?” This elicits a reaction; Derek leans in until their noses are an inch away from brushing. One of his hands moves from Stiles’ thigh to his face, curves around his jaw like he’s trying to protect it from breaking (or like he’s trying to snap it himself).

“I want you to look at me,” he replies in a low rumble. “I want you to look at me and tell me that this really means nothing to you.” 

If it had been only a few weeks ago, Stiles thinks that he could have done just that. He could have looked Derek in the eye and told him that what they have between them, whatever the fuck it is, means absolutely nothing to him. That it really is nothing more than stress relief.

Try as he might, he can’t make those words pass his lips now, but he also can’t do as Derek asks. He can’t let him win. 

He _can’t._

So, he tilts his head slightly, raises his mouth until he’s sure that his breath will brush directly against Derek’s mouth, and says one word.

“Parrish.” 

The blood rushes into Derek’s face, and his fingers tighten painfully on Stiles’ jaw. 

“What did you say?” 

“Parrish,” Stiles repeats, curling his mouth into a smile as sharp as a dagger. “You asked who gave me all of these. It was Parrish. And he kept me on the edge so long that I _cried_.” He expects Derek to explode, and he braces himself for the impact, convinced that he’s about to receive a fist in the face. 

Instead, Derek swoops down and kisses him again, hard enough to wrench Stiles’ head back against the pillows. The tendons in his neck feel strained to their breaking point, but even when he yanks away from Derek’s punishing grip to suck in a breath, he doesn’t get a break. Derek immediately ducks his head into the crook of Stiles’ neck, and before Stiles can prepare himself, his mouth latches onto one of the bruises Parrish left behind and _sucks_. It’s almost ludicrously painful, bad enough that Stiles sees red sparks behind his eyelids, but he doesn’t tell Derek to stop.

He doesn’t _want_ Derek to stop. 

Derek visits every single bruise that Parrish left behind and covers it with a new one of his own. By the time he finishes up, hovering above Stiles’ waistband, Stiles looks like he’s been in a fistfight. Blossoms of purple and red and yellow flourish up and down his chest, each of them punctuated by a dull ache. He’s pretty sure that, even with his experience with concealer, he isn’t going to be able to cover all of them up, which means that he’s going to have to come up with some kind of cover story.

But that will have to wait until tomorrow, because this time, when Derek puts his mouth on Stiles’ cock, there’s no fabric between them, and the ability to think disappears from his mind.

Derek brings him so close to the edge that when he pulls away, wiping at his lips with the back of his hand, Stiles’ muscles are still fluttering in anticipation. He sits up and glares at him, chest heaving and blotchy red, one hand fisted into the sheets so tightly that he’s surprised he hasn’t torn the fabric yet. 

“What the _fuck_?” he hisses. Derek doesn’t speak. He simply crawls back up Stiles’ body and, once they’re back face to face, blindly reaches over into his nightstand. After a moment of rustling, he closes the drawer with a slam that sends the whole piece of furniture rocking and drops a bottle of lube beside Stiles’ head. Stiles glances from Derek to it and back again. When he catches Derek’s gaze the second time, his eyebrow is raised, and some of the furor has melted away from his face. He’s obviously asking a question and, even though Stiles is still a little sore, he doesn’t think twice about nodding. 

“Yeah,” he says, barely able to recognize his own voice. “Do it.” Once Derek sits back onto his knees, Stiles makes a move to flip onto his stomach but, with one hand pinned to his hips, Derek shoves him back flat. 

“Like this,” he says, voice little more than an aroused rasp. It’s a bad idea; it’s never been Stiles’ favorite position, especially not in times like this, when looking into someone’s eyes could be downright dangerous.

But it’s not like the whole situation can get any worse. 

“Okay,” he nods. Derek slides off the bed, crosses the room to the couch, and comes back with a throw pillow. When he nudges Stiles’ hip with it, Stiles obediently lifts up, until it’s settled underneath him and his pelvis is tilted up. He brings his knees up to his chest, feeling painfully vulnerable and exposed. Just meeting Derek’s eyes makes his skin flush even hotter, so he keeps his eyes locked on the rest of Derek instead; on the swoop of his shoulders, the heaving rise of his chest, on the muscles fluttering underneath the taut skin of his abdomen. 

At the first press of Derek’s fingers inside him, Stiles closes his eyes and arches his back, bearing down on them. He’s still loosened up from earlier, and the stretch is easily bearable, but Derek’s fingers are different from Parrish’s, thicker and somehow blunter. He’s no less thorough with them; more pinpricks, precursors to tears of _want_ , light up behind Stiles’ eyes, and he’s more than a little glad that he has them closed.

Derek doesn’t drag the proceedings out. When Stiles says that he’s ready, he withdraws his fingers and shuffles closer. He smooths his palms up Stiles’ calves, but he doesn’t say anything. Stiles cracks his eyes open and meets Derek’s, and all the questions that Parrish had asked are present there, unspoken but present all the same. 

“Do it,” he says, swallowing around the dryness infiltrating his throat. 

Derek does as he’s asked and, for the second time that night, Stiles has the air punched from his chest. 

He wastes no time in setting a pace that Stiles knows is going to have him coming sooner rather than later. Every so often, Derek’s fingers brush along where his cock is jutting against his stomach and, with each touch, Stiles has to bite back the urge to say please. 

Saying it once today was more than enough. 

The next time Derek speaks, his voice is little more than a collection of gasps strung together. 

“Parrish made you cry,” he murmurs. One of his hands is curled tight around the back of Stiles’ thigh, pushing it closer to his chest, and as he leans down to run his mouth along Stiles’ knee, he continues, “And you _still_ came back to me.” 

“Don’t,” Stiles warns, voice splitting into a groan as Derek’s hips slam against his.

“And you still try to tell yourself that this means nothing. You’re delusional.” 

“Fuck _off_ ,” Stiles snaps, hating how tight his throat feels as he says it. He hates that Derek is so firmly lodged under his skin, that he can’t rip him out, hates that he doesn’t _want_ to rip him out. Eyes still closed, he goes one step further, twists his face into the pillow and forces himself to spit out words that he wants to choke on. “This means nothing to me. _Nothing_.” 

“Then look at me when you say it,” Derek demands, hips snapping against Stiles’ over and over again. 

“It means nothing,” Stiles repeats, but he doesn’t open his eyes. Instead, he opens his legs wider, hooks them around Derek’s waist, and pulls him in closer. He fumbles blindly for Derek’s shoulders and, when he finds them, sinks his bitten off nails into the skin stretched tight over his muscles and bones. 

“Look at me then,” Derek says again, mouth so close that Stiles can feel it skimming against his as he speaks. “Look at me when you say it, and I’ll believe you.” 

Stiles doesn’t open his eyes, but he repeats the words over and over again against Derek’s mouth, repeats them as Derek speeds up even further and shifts to wrap one hand around Stiles’ cock. He keeps on whispering them, hoping that the next time he says them will be the time Derek believes him. 

He’s still whispering them when he comes, and all it takes is one look at Derek’s face to realize that Derek isn’t any closer to believing him. 

Which is fine. 

Because neither is Stiles. 

&.

For what feels like an eternity afterwards, neither of them move. 

Stiles is on his back, one arm flung over his eyes. The throw pillow that had been tilting his hips up has been tossed across the room with the rest of his clothes and, for the second time that night, his thighs are sticky with lube. While they’d managed to kick most of the files off the bed before they got down to the main event, there are still a few stuck underneath his back, glued to his skin with sweat. Every time he shifts, dozens of micro cuts scattered along his body pull a little further open, each of them a reprimand for having sex on top of paper. 

Between the paper cuts and the bruises, he’s pretty sure that he looks like he got beat with a baseball bat _and_ attacked by a cat. 

“Please say these are all photocopies,” he mumbles. 

“They are,” Derek replies. One of his legs is pressed against Stiles’, and the heat rolling off of him is astounding. “Don’t worry, you didn’t just destroy a bunch of evidence. There’s still a rule you haven’t broken.” 

“Fuck off,” Stiles mutters, unable to put any real heat into the words. It’s been a long goddamn night; there’s no clocks within sight, and his phone is across the room, but he’s pretty sure that it has to be after four o’clock in the morning. His muscles are sore, his ass is sore, and his mind is absolutely exhausted. If he didn’t feel so disgusting, he would pass out exactly where he is.

“I need a shower,” he says, using an inordinate amount of energy to pull his arm away from his face. 

“You know where it is,” Derek replies, not moving an inch. “Towels are in the closet.” 

Spurring himself into action, Stiles swings his legs off the edge of the bed and sits up. There are two pieces of paper stuck to his back but, before he can reach around to grab them, blunt fingers skim along his sides and pluck both of them away.

“Thanks,” he says, getting to his feet unsteadily and heading off to the bathroom. For the second time that night, he goes through the motions. He lets hot water pour over his various war wounds, steals Derek’s shampoo and body wash, winces as soap runs into the cuts. Despite the pain, by the time he steps out onto the plush shower mat covering up the rough concrete floor, he almost feels like an actual human being again. 

When he steps back into the main area of the loft, Derek is lying on the freshly made bed, hands laced over his stomach. In the time it took Stiles to get clean, he’s gotten dressed. The remainder of the files have been removed from the bed and are stacked on the floor. The lights are off, but there’s a flickering blue glow emanating from the television, which has been turned on with the volume so low that Stiles can barely hear it. 

“I see you were busy while I was gone,” he says, clutching the loose knot of his towel in one hand as he scans the living room, searching for his clothes. He’s not exactly relishing putting them back on, but at least he’ll only have to deal with them for as long as it takes a cab to rush him home. 

“There’s some sweatpants lying on the couch,” Derek says. “And a shirt and some boxers. They might be a bit musty from sitting in my closet.” 

“Oh,” Stiles says. Amazingly, the idea that he might actually be invited to stay, albeit in a roundabout way, hadn’t even occurred to him, mainly because that seems to imply that they’ll actually have to sit down and figure out what the fuck just happened. 

But if they _aren’t_ going to be having that awkward conversation, he has to admit that staying at the loft is a hell of a lot more appealing than grabbing a cab and stumbling through the front door to his blaring television. 

Their workday is supposed to start in only three hours. 

They are _so_ fucked. 

“Okay,” he answers belatedly, finding the clothes Derek was talking about. They’re soft and clean, and he lets his towel drop to the floor and quickly changes. The boxers are a little big, but when he cinches the waist of the sweatpants, they manage to stay up around his hips. 

“Do you have another pillow for this?” Stiles asks, sitting on the edge of the couch. “And a blanket.” 

“Will you just get over here?” Derek mumbles, sitting up and pressing the heel of his palm into his eye. It doesn’t sound like refusing is really an option and, frankly, Stiles doesn’t want to. He can’t help but think of how much better he’s slept whenever he’s been beside Derek, and if there’s any night that he needs to get a few hours of decent rest, it’s tonight. 

“Fine,” he says, getting back to his feet and stumbling over to the bed, stepping on files and his own shirt in the process. “But don’t think too much into this.” 

“Shut up,” Derek grunts, yanking the blanket back. It’s a new one, a replacement of the duvet that had been underneath Stiles’ back earlier, and it’s blessedly soft against Stiles’ skin when he slides underneath it. He punches the pillow into something that approximates the shape of his own as Derek slides back under the blanket. Immediately, his bare toes skim against Stiles’ calf. 

Stiles doesn’t pull away. Rather, he shifts backwards an inch at a time, until Derek’s foot is properly slotted between his legs. Before he can ask himself how far he really wants to go, Derek decides for him. He slides across the space between them, sheets rustling underneath his body, until his broad chest is pressed against Stiles’ back, and loosely drapes one arm underneath Stiles’ waist, just above the line of his boxers. His forehead comes to rest against the back of Stiles’ neck, and Stiles can feel his breath drifting down his spine. 

“Should have pegged you as a cuddly guy,” he mumbles. 

“I don’t see you trying to move away,” Derek mutters, pinching a loose piece of skin near Stiles’ hip. 

Well, Derek has him there. 

Loathe as he is to admit it to himself, Stiles can’t remember the last time he felt so comfortable. Even the first time they slept side by side, back in the hotel room, can’t compare to this. Maybe it’s just a good mattress, or maybe it’s just the fact that his exhaustion is bone deep, but Stiles suspects those are only secondary factors. A part of him that he doesn’t want to acknowledge, a part that’s too loud to ignore, knows that it’s because of the body pressed against him. 

“I didn’t think this would ever happen,” he mumbles a few moments later. At first, he isn’t sure if he’s actually spoken the words aloud or if he’s just thought them, but the sigh of Derek’s breath against the back of his neck answers his question for him. 

“Me neither,” he replies. “Now please, shut _up_.” 

For once, Stiles does as he’s asked.


	25. Chapter 25

Stiles wakes up with drool crusted to his cheek and a rumbling stomach. 

It takes a moment for him to realize why exactly the latter is happening, but when his nose finally catches up with the rest of him, the smell of bacon and coffee floods his nostrils. He flips onto his back and leans up on his elbows so he can survey the room with sleep encrusted eyes. 

Derek is in the kitchen area of the loft, fully dressed, nudging a spitting frying pan with a spatula. As Stiles blinks, the toaster on the counter pops and, in one fluid moment, Derek spins, yanks the toast out, and drops it onto a plate that’s heaped with scrambled eggs. 

“What are you doing?” he mumbles, jaw cracking as he yawns. 

“What does it _look_ like I’m doing?” Derek replies, leaning over the pan and turning off the stove. “I’m making breakfast.” Admittedly, Stiles doesn’t know what kind of answer he expected, so he simply nods and slowly slides out from underneath the blanket. He doesn’t know how he slept so damn long; the sun is fully up, albeit still low in the sky. It looks like it’s shaping up to be a prototypical early summer day; the skin is a pale blue, marked by heaping white clouds that look like marshmallows. 

“What time is it?” he asks, dropping his feet to the cold concrete floor. 

“Just after nine,” Derek says. “Figured you needed the sleep. But we might have something.” 

“Well, haven’t you had a productive morning,” Stiles says, standing up and shoving his hand through his hair. “Just give me a minute. Need the bathroom.” 

When he comes back, he joins Derek at the kitchen island, perching on a bar stool that he’s pretty sure cost more than every piece of furniture in his apartment combined. There’s a huge mug of coffee resting beside a plate piled high with bacon, eggs, and buttered toast. Before Stiles digs in, he quickly checks the fridge. Thankfully, Derek has a bottle of ketchup, and after he returns to his seat, he smothers his eggs in a thick layer of the condiment. Only then does he stick his fork into the mess and start shoveling it into his mouth as fast as he can. 

“You’re disgusting,” Derek says. Amazingly, he only sounds like he half means it. 

“And here I was starting to think that I didn’t hate you after all,” Stiles mumbles around a mouthful of food. He waits until he’s swallowed most of it to continue. “So what’s this something that you’ve got?” 

Derek lays it out for him in between sips of his coffee. Every time he takes a break, Stiles wants to shake him by the shoulders and demand that he keep going, because while there’s definitely no guarantees, this actually sounds like it might be _something_. 

(Then again, he’d also thought that about the license plates, and the traffic cameras, and everything else along the way, and been disappointed at every turn.)

At some point last night, when Stiles had been off cavorting with Parrish, Derek had taken it upon himself to call one of his contacts in the DEA and ask for a favor. The favor had been for them to let him know what their results had been when they’d last flown a plane with heat mapping software over the Beacon Hills Preserve. Normally, it was used to discover marijuana grow-ops, but if the cult truly was located in the woods, they would possibly throw off a disproportionate amount of heat as well. Apparently, less than an hour ago, his contact had called back with the information. 

Their plane had flown over the preserve three weeks ago and found four sites of interest that were located off the public trails and weren’t already accounted for by something. One of those sites had been confirmed as a marijuana operation and had been taken care of. But that left three that were still a mystery. 

“He sent us some pictures,” Derek says, reaching into his pocket, pulling his phone out, and zooming in on an image. “Look.” 

It takes a few moments for Stiles to figure out what he’s looking at; he blames it on the caffeine not having had enough time to set in. When he does figure it out, he drops his fork with a clatter and zooms out slightly, so that he has a little bit more context for the image. 

“Holy shit,” he says. 

While the pictures were taken from a fair distance, the image is so high definition that Stiles can zoom in without it pixelating too heavily. The image that Derek has shown him appears to be some kind of dilapidated house, smack dab in the middle of the Preserve, where no one has been allowed to build for ages. Despite the appearance of the house, the trees around it have been cleared fairly recently, which seems to indicate human activity. A thin trail leads from the edge of the clearing out into the woods, barely wide enough to be a goat path, let alone a road, yet there’s a white van parked in front of the house. 

“What else did your buddy say about it?” Stiles says, forcing himself to swallow another sip of coffee even though he’s already jittery with nerves. 

“He said that the heat signatures coming from the place aren’t high enough for it to be a drug operation, but there’s definitely _something_ going on there. And if you look here…” Derek pauses and zooms in on what looks like a small box resting off to the side of the house, “they’re running a generator, so they’ve got electricity in there. Now, maybe this is some guy who’s just off the beaten track but-“

“Doubt it,” Stiles interrupts. He chugs the rest of his coffee and drops the mug back to the counter. The rest of his breakfast no longer looks as appealing, but he forces himself to eat it anyways, forks it into his mouth like he hasn’t eaten in months. 

If this information turns out to be as useful as he suspects, there’s no telling how long it’ll be before he has a decent meal again. 

“Are there coordinates attached to that picture?” he asks around a mouthful of toast. 

“Yeah. Why?” 

“There’s a fairly new map of the Preserve at the office, in the other conference room,” Stiles says, pushing away from the counter and getting to his feet. “We’re going to have to figure out how they’re getting in and out of there. Maybe an old service road or something. But we need to figure out exactly where they are, so that we can get there and take them out.” 

“If you do that, I can start filling out the paperwork,” Derek says. “It’s going to take a few days-“ 

“No, it won’t,” Stiles says, sighing heavily. He hates pulling the card he’s about to, but if there’s ever been a situation deserving of it, it’s this. “You get ready to leave. I’ll make a phone call. We’re going to have to stop at my house so I can pick up some clothes.” 

“Your clothes from last night are hanging to dry in the bathroom, if you don’t mind wearing those again. They might still be a little damp,” Derek says as Stiles reaches his jacket and digs out his phone, hoping that the battery isn’t totally drained. Thankfully, he apparently had the foresight to turn it off at some point last night, and while he waits for it to power up, he glances back over his shoulder at where Derek is cleaning up the kitchen. 

“You washed my clothes?” 

“I needed to do _something_ while I waited for you to wake up,” Derek mutters without looking back over his shoulder. 

“Yeah, sure, you big softy.” 

“Fuck off.” Stiles snorts and turns his attention back to his phone as the screen lights up. He’s missed a few texts from Scott and one phone call from an unknown number. Scott is just telling him that him and Kira are still okay, and that they’d like to have him over for dinner sometime soon. Stiles quickly shoots off a reply, saying that he’ll be over as soon as the case allows. When it comes to the voicemail, he fears the worst, fears that it’s going to be the maniacal laughter of a cult member or Scott’s panicked voice, but he forces himself to type in the password to his inbox rather than ignore it. 

He’s pleasantly surprised when Isaac’s voice drifts from his tinny speaker.

“Hey, it’s me. I had to get a new phone, mine somehow got… well, crushed during the attack. I just wanted to let you know that I’m okay. I’m staying with my friend near Sacramento for a while. But yeah, that’s it. Good luck solving the case. Maybe give me a call sometime, if you feel like it.” 

All hints of allure have vanished from his voice. There’s no purred _Detective_ , no unspoken promises of what Isaac could do to him if he showed up. It’s like hearing from an acquaintance you haven’t spoken to in years. 

It hits Stiles that he doesn’t really know what Isaac is like as a person, not just an informant. He obviously cares a great deal for the street kids, but that’s the only concrete piece of information that he really has. Guilt settles over him at that, and his commitment to not involve Isaac in any more of his mess only strengthens. 

But he doesn’t delete the message. At the very least, he can call Isaac when they’ve ended this. He deserves to know. 

That taken care of, he steps out of the door near Derek’s bed and walks onto the balcony. It's obvious that Derek barely ventures out here; there’s absolutely no furniture dotting its length, not even a single plastic chair. The ground is layered with dirt, and streaks of pigeon scat cover the railing. Stiles settles for leaning back against the window, on the other side of the glass of Derek’s bed. He stares down at the keypad, willing his fingers to move, to make the damn call so that they can cut through all of the red tape and start their surveillance today, rather than two weeks from now, when they might have more bodies on their hands. 

After slapping his phone off his palm a few times, he finally takes a deep breath and types in his dad’s cellphone number. After five agonizingly long rings, it goes to voicemail, so he ends the call and tries again, this time dialing his dad’s office extension. 

This time, he strikes gold. 

“Commander Stilinski,” he answers. Amazingly, there’s not even a hint of a slur in his voice. 

“Hi Dad,” he says. What is realistically only a few seconds of silence follows but, for Stiles, each moment only fuels the guilt walloping his mind. 

“Hello, son,” his father finally replies, and the second word stings worse than a paper cut. “I was starting to wonder if you’d vanished off the face of the earth.”

“Well, I’ve been busy,” Stiles retorts, and while he knows that being defensive is only going to make the call more painful, his guard is still up. “Besides, it’s not like you’ve tried to call me either, have you?” 

“I deserved that,” his dad says, sighing deeply. His words are punctuated by the sound of a drawer slamming, and Stiles can’t help but wonder if his dad is reaching into his desk to dip into his stash. “How is the case coming? Derek hasn’t given me a report in a few weeks.” 

That statement fills Stiles with a mixture of apprehension and, strangely enough, fondness. He’s not exactly surprised to learn that Derek was reporting directly to his father, but he _is_ surprised that Derek apparently hasn’t found it necessary to talk to him in quite some time. 

“Well, actually, about that,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “I have a favor to ask.” 

Thankfully, the rest of the conversation isn’t as painful as Stiles had expected. After some griping about how he can’t just cut through red tape every time Stiles asks, his dad does just that or, at the very least, _promises_ to do just that. 

“I’ll make some calls,” he says. “I’ll get back to you this afternoon if, for some reason, something doesn’t go through. So keep your phone on.” 

“Might be easier for you to call Derek,” Stiles says, briefly pulling his phone away from his ear to gauge what his battery level is. “I don’t know when I’ll be able to charge this next.” 

“Alright.” Another silence creeps between them, and Stiles thinks about simply saying bye and hanging up, but it feels like his dad wants to say something, wants to fill the void stretching between them. Long moments tick by and, by the time his father _finally_ clears his damn throat, Stiles feels like he’s about to jitter completely out of his skin. 

“Be safe today,” he says gruffly. “Whatever happens, be careful. That’s an order.” 

“Yes, sir,” Stiles replies. “Derek and I will look after each other.” 

“Alright. I love you, Stiles. I know that-“ 

“Dad,” Stiles breaks in. He’s not in any kind of shape to listen to his father’s self-pitying speech, mainly because it’ll just send him off on one of his own. “It’s fine. I love you too, alright? If you don’t call, we’ll leave this afternoon. I’ll let you know how things progress.” 

After they say their goodbyes, Stiles leans his head back against the cool glass and sighs heavily. His task is done, but there’s no getting rid of the heavy feeling sitting in his stomach. For the time being, he supposes that he’ll just have to ignore it. They have more important things to focus on, like actually _moving_ and maybe bringing this whole thing to an end. 

When he walks back inside, Derek is leaning against the counter, sipping on his second cup of coffee. He glances over when Stiles closes the balcony door behind himself, but he doesn’t say anything. 

“He’s going to take care of it,” Stiles says, tossing his phone across the room so that it lands with a bounce on Derek’s bed. He starts taking his shirt off mid-step as he heads towards the bathroom. “Give me like ten minutes and we can leave.”

It takes slightly longer than that, but only because he has to yell at Derek to see whether or not he has a spare toothbrush. His neck and chest are absolutely littered in bruises, and even after he does some creative finagling with his collar and a tie borrowed from Derek, there are still blooming hickeys visible along the line of his throat. He’s pretty sure he has a tube of concealer hidden in his desk at the detachment, but until he gets there, he’ll just have to deal with them.

By the time they actually step out of the loft, pausing by the elevator so that Derek can type in the security code and lock the door, it’s just past ten. If they hurry, and if his dad fulfills his promise to spare them paperwork and hours and days of waiting, they can probably be out to the site by mid-afternoon. 

Even if it’s just to get a _look_ at the place, it’s something. 

But they can’t do it alone. Even if it does end up being solely a surveillance mission, they still need someone to watch their backs and, truthfully, while Stiles is more than friendly with some of the other guys working in the detachment, there’s really only one other person he trusts with his life.

Which poses a problem, seeing as he slept with the guy less than twelve hours ago. 

“We can’t do this alone,” he says once they’re inside the creaking elevator. It’s a huge space, but Derek is standing right beside him, shoulder brushing against his, and it doesn’t occur to Stiles to tell him to move. “You know we can’t.” 

“I know,” Derek replies. He doesn’t sound as angry as Stiles expected, but when he glances out of the corner of his eye, Derek’s jaw is clenched, and the tendons in his neck are strung tight as guitar strings. “And I know that you want it to be him. But don’t ask me to like it.” 

“I don’t think _I’m_ going to like it.” He’s not just saying it to sate Derek’s ego; when he’d been thinking last night about the consequences of his actions with Parrish, he hadn’t thought that he’d have to deal with them so soon. “But don’t worry. I’m not going to make you kiss his ass. Just don’t be a total dick.” 

“Am I _ever_ a total dick?” 

“Always.”


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I'm not certain if I'll be able to reach my initial goal of having the whole story posted by the end of March, but it'll be shortly afterwards, by April 4 at the latest (i'm going on a week long trip starting then and want this finished by the time I leave)!

When they arrive, the detachment is swarming with activity. Derek continues on to the conference room to borrow the laptop they’ve been using so that he can open the photos from his DEA contact, while Stiles quickly ducks into his cubicle and starts rummaging through his various drawers. He finally finds his concealer buried underneath a few dead pens and a notepad covered with scribbles, grabs it and a marker, and hightails it into the conference room they haven’t already taken over. 

“Got them up?” he asks, closing the door and blocking most of the hubbub out. After spending so many hours in the other conference room, surrounded by files and evidence, this room looks downright expansive. It smells like dust and disuse, as opposed to old coffee and permanent markers. Derek nods and spins the laptop around so that it’s facing Stiles. Derek’s email is open, revealing a message from a DEA address. A number of pictures are attached, and in the body of the email itself, each photo is identified with coordinates and a small blurb. 

“Picture three is the one we want,” Derek replies. Stiles quickly glances at the coordinates assigned to the picture and whirls around, yanking the cap of the marker off with his teeth. 

The map of the Preserve is huge, spanning almost the entire width of the wall. There are scattered, faded marks across its surface, points of interest from other operations that wrapped up long ago or never got off the ground in the first place. Using the legends on the vertical and horizontal axis, he moves across the map, looking for the appropriate spot. When he does find it, he draws a circle around it, marring the map with black marker. 

“There it is.” Derek comes up to join him and, together they stare at the map. While there’s less detail than in the photographs from Derek’s contact, there’s still _something_ there, a gray block of pixels that has no real business being in the middle of a forest. 

“I can’t believe it’s been here this whole time,” Stiles says. “Literally a room away from us.”

“We’ve never been in here,” Derek points out. “And even if we were, what are the chances that your eyes would have fixed on that anyways?”

“Still,” Stiles mutters, although he doesn’t have anything else to actually add. Shaking the distracting thoughts from his head, he leans in closer to the map, until his nose is almost touching the paper. There’s a thin white line tracing away from the gray block of pixels, twisting and turning and sometimes fully disappearing into the woods. Starting at the source, he traces it with his fingernail, shifting across the map. When the line disappears underneath clumps of trees, he stops and looks in gradually larger circles until he picks the trail back up. Derek follows along after him, so close that the jut of his chin brushes against Stiles’ shoulder, and a few times, he manages to find the trail before Stiles does. 

Eventually, the thin white line joins up with a slightly thicker one, a service road that's probably rarely used, except by poachers or firefighters. That road joins up with another, and _that_ one eventually connects to one of the roads that the public can use to enter the Preserve. All told, in following the trail to its source, they’ve nearly moved across half of the map. 

“They’re miles away from anything,” Stiles says, keeping his finger pinned on where the road terminates. “No wonder no one has ever complained about them.” Derek nods, picks up Stiles’ marker, and starts again, tracing over the trail. “This is way too bulky to take with us,” Stiles continues, stepping away from the map so Derek can continue to follow the trail. “But if we mark down the coordinates, we can use GPS once we get into the Preserve.” 

“We’re going to need other equipment,” Derek continues. “Camouflage, food, water. We can give a smaller version of this to our backup.” 

“I’m sure we can rustle all that up.” Stiles quickly fishes his phone from his pocket and glances at the time. It’s just after eleven, and while his father told him to wait until the afternoon, he doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with getting ready a little early. “You go see what you can wrangle out of the supply room. If anyone gives you shit, tell them to call my dad. I’m going to track down Parrish and see if he can help us out.” A spark of emotion momentarily passes through Derek’s eyes, but he blinks it away quickly. 

“Alright. But first, you should cover those up,” Derek says, dropping his hand to Stiles’ neck and gently pressing his thumb into one of the bruises. Stiles arches into the touch. 

“Oh, right.” He yanks the tube of concealer from his pocket and passes it over to Derek. “Help me out. We’ll need a tissue to blend it.” While Derek crosses the room to grab a tissue from the box sitting on a desk in the corner, Stiles undoes his tie and the top few buttons of his shirt. The fabric drags across the bruises as he does so, and it makes him wince slightly. 

“I’ve never done this before,” Derek says, popping the cap off the tube. “So if it looks horrible, don’t blame me.” 

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.” Stiles tilts his head back and to the side, so that more of his throat is exposed, and Derek leans in and presses a single, hard kiss to the side of his neck. 

“Seems like a shame to cover them up,” he says quietly, squeezing a dollop of concealer onto the tip of his index finger.

“Whatever, caveman,” Stiles mutters. “Hurry up, we’ve got shit to do.” 

Derek doesn’t say anything else. He smears concealer on the side of Stiles’ neck and, when he declares himself finished, Stiles uses the camera on his phone to check out the results. There’s definitely a few spots where Derek could have done some more blending but, seeing as they’ll hopefully only be in the office for a few more hours, it’ll do. 

Derek heads off to the supply room while Stiles returns to the bullpen to try and find Parrish. He doesn’t have to go far; Parrish’s cubicle is empty, but Stiles finds him in the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of coffee, facing away from the door. There’s a small red mark visible on the side of his neck, just above his collar. 

“I can lend you some concealer, if you want to cover that up,” Stiles says quietly. Parrish jumps slightly, but he finishes pouring his coffee before he turns around. 

“I must have missed it this morning.” With his free hand, Parrish reaches up and rubs at his neck. “Did you have to-“

“Yeah,” Stiles says, laughing awkwardly and catching himself before he can rub at _his_ neck and smear the concealer. “You marked me up pretty good. I got Derek to cover it up.” 

“Oh,” Parrish says, taking a sip of his coffee. “That’s good.” Stiles has never seen him look so uncomfortable before. His eyes keep skittering around the room, and now that his free hand has dropped away from his coffee mug, it’s twitching against his thigh, beating out an uneven rhythm. 

Stiles decides to be kind and put him out of his misery.

“Look,” he begins, quickly glancing towards the open door of the kitchen to make sure that no one else is within earshot, “we need to talk about last night eventually. But for now, it has to wait. We caught a break in our case. We’re pretty sure that we know where these bastards have been camping out this whole time. It’s way back in the Preserve. We’re going on a surveillance run this afternoon, but just in case it turns into something more, we need some backup.” 

“And you want my help?” Parrish asks. He sounds both weary and strangely touched. The first part only takes Stiles by surprise for a few moments. He knows that he’s definitely exploited Parrish’s talents on this case and given him nothing back in return. If it was coming from anyone else, he wouldn’t give a fuck but, regardless of the complications caused by last night’s actions, Parrish is still one of the best detectives he knows, and he doesn’t want to lose that resource just because he’s been a dick. 

“If you have time,” Stiles says. “Trust me, I know that I owe you. And you can call that in whenever you want. I just need this last favor.” For a long time, Parrish doesn’t answer. Finally, with a sigh, he nods. 

“Alright,” he says. “I’ll find a few other people. Want us to meet you out there?” 

“Sure. Derek’s just going to get us some supplies. Meet us at the public parking lot off Oakview Road. It shouldn’t take us too long.” He turns to leave but on second thought, he twists back around and plasters on the best smile he has. “Thank you, Parrish. Seriously.” 

“Anytime,” Parrish murmurs into the rim of his coffee mug, eyes firmly fixed on the floor. 

&.

Stiles finds Derek in the vast supply room at the back of the detachment. He’s standing in one of the aisles, surrounded by a veritable smorgasbord of stuff. When Stiles kneels down to search through it, he finds two flat pack water bottles, GPS locators, portable radios, extra magazines for their pistols, binoculars with night vision attachments, rope, and two Kevlar vests. Two incredibly unflattering and ugly but practical jumpsuits, their sides covered with pockets of all sizes, hang loosely from a nearby shelf. 

“I figured we could pick up some food,” Derek replies, pulling a box off a shelf, looking at it, and then deciding against whatever it contains. “Trail mix and beef jerky should be enough until we get back.” 

“Depending on how long we’re out there for,” Stiles points out. 

“I’m only waiting for as long as I have to. Erica and Boyd might still be alive. If I see any sign that they’re in there, I’m moving in.” It’s the first time he’s mentioned them in days, and while some of the pain that had colored his voice before has trickled away, it hasn’t all disappeared. His expression grows distant for a moment, and Stiles can only imagine the guilt and grief filling his mind. 

“Well, if you go in, I guess I’ll go after your dumb ass,” Stiles says, grabbing an empty box to load with their supplies. “Can’t let you get yourself killed.” When he stands back up straight, Derek’s hand drops to his shoulder, and when Stiles glances over, Derek is looking at him with wide, open eyes, so damn vulnerable looking that Stiles can barely believe he’s looking at the same man who covered him in bruises only hours ago. 

“Thank you,” Derek says solemnly, squeezing slightly. 

“You did it for me when it was Isaac’s life on the line,” Stiles replies. “I’m only returning the favor.” 

“Still.” Derek lets his hand linger a little longer before he slides it away from Stiles’ arm, slowly, like he’s trying to soak up as much physical contact as he can. 

Seeing as they might be dead in only a few hours, depending on how this plays out, Stiles can’t say that he blames him. 

“You almost ready?” he asks, tossing the rest of the supplies into the nearly overflowing box. 

“Yep.” Derek stoops down to grab the box before Stiles can move for it, so he grabs the jumpsuits off the shelf and holds open the door to the bullpen. “We should use a detachment car.” 

“Don’t want the Camaro’s tires to get spiked?” 

“Or blown up. Or shot. Or anything, really.” 

“Can’t say that I blame you,” Stiles says, exiting the bullpen through the back door, which leads them into a hallway filled with filing cabinets before it terminates in the motor pool, which is a parking lot fenced in by chain link topped with razor wire. “We could always use my car. Maybe they’ll buy me a new one if it gets fucked up.” 

“Doubt it, and I am _not_ ferrying you around town if that happens,” Derek snorts. Despite the load in his arms, he’s managed to get ahead of Stiles, and he bumps his hip into the push bar for the back door. Stiles pushes it open the rest of the way, the legs of the jumpsuits dragging along the carpeted hallway. 

“Why not?” Stiles asks, making sure that the door closes securely behind them. A small set of concrete steps leads down to the parking lot, and he hoists the jumpsuits up into his arms, just in case they snag on something and rip. “I’ve spent more time in your car in the last two months than I have in mine.” 

“Because your car is a junk box.” 

“Exactly! That’s why we should blow it up.” Derek rolls his eyes and, amazingly, even though they’re about to run into a situation that could very well kill them, he’s actually _smiling_. It may not be megawatt, but still, the fact that his lips are quirked up at all, that the smile is actually reaching his eyes…

Well, it makes Stiles feel a sense of accomplishment, one that he hasn’t experienced in a very long time. 

They end up choosing a sleek, new black sedan. If they were going to be driving all the way to the cult’s headquarters, one of the SUVs or ATVS dotted around the lot would be a better choice, but for discretion’s sake, they’ve decided to go no further than the first turnoff. That leaves miles of trekking through the woods, during which they’ll have to be completely alert unless they want to risk triggering a tripwire and leaving the Preserve in a body bag. 

The drive to the Preserve is conducted in silence. The inside of the car is comfortable enough, but it feels entirely foreign after spending so much time in the Camaro. It smells like leather and plastic, and there are heated seats and a gleaming radio just begging to be flicked on, but Stiles doesn’t reach for it. 

He spends most of the time desperately trying to clear his mind of distractions. It’s difficult; just when he thinks he’s been successful, another errant thought about Scott or Isaac or his father pops back through the barriers he’s trying to put up, and he has to start all over again. He doesn’t even realize that he’s groaned with frustration until Derek’s hand drops to his knee. He doesn’t say anything, and when Stiles glances over at him, his gaze doesn’t fall away from the windshield, but he squeezes Stiles’ knee tightly. 

Stiles appreciates the gesture, but he’s pretty sure that he isn’t the only one who needs grounded, so he wiggles his hand underneath Derek’s, palm facing upwards, so that their fingers can lock together properly. Derek’s fingers immediately morph to his, and Stiles does the squeezing this time. 

They stay like that until they pull into the parking lot of the Preserve. 

Parrish and three detectives that Stiles is vaguely familiar with are waiting around, lounging against the hoods of their respective vehicles. Once Stiles clambers from their own car, he gives them a wave of acknowledgement before continuing around to the trunk to fetch their jumpsuits and supplies. 

Derek has already beaten him to it. 

“You know, I am capable of carrying _something_ ,” Stiles says, yanking the jumpsuits away from where they’re dangling over Derek’s shoulders. 

“Never said that you weren’t,” Derek replies. As they walk over to meet the other detectives, Stiles can’t help but keep an eye on Derek. His jaw clenches slightly as they approach Parrish but, other than that, he’s remarkably restrained. 

Stiles almost wants to give him a medal for his conduct. 

“So, what exactly is going on?” one of the other detectives says, crossing her arms over her chest. “Parrish hasn’t given us much to go on.” 

“That’s because _we_ didn’t give him much to go on,” Stiles retorts, tossing the jumpsuits onto the hood of one of the cars. He’s going to have to strip down to his underwear when it comes time to pull one on, and he finds himself wishing that he had slightly warmer socks. Thankfully, for the time being, the day has blossomed into a warm one; there’s just the barest hint of a wind, and the sun is bright overhead, occasionally playing peekaboo with the fluffy clouds. For the next few hours, they should be fine. 

Hopefully, one way or another, they’ll be out of the damn forest by nighttime. 

“Derek, do you have that map?” he asks. Derek nods, rummages through the box of supplies, and pulls out a large piece of paper that’s been folded over numerous times. He unfolds and flattens it out on the hood of the other car, pushing out the creases. After reaching inside his jacket, he pulls out a pen, quickly scans the map, and circles the location of the cult’s headquarters. 

“This is where we’re going,” he says, passing the pen to Stiles, who starts tracing the roads leading to where they’re currently standing. It’s difficult on such a small map, but eventually, he manages to find his way back to the parking lot, which he circles hard enough to tear the paper. 

“As you can see, it’s quite the goddamn trek,” Stiles says, tossing the pen back over his shoulder to Derek, who catches it effortlessly. “Realistically, it’s only safe for us to drive up to here.” He stabs his finger at where the first service road breaks away from the public road. “After that, we’re going to have to walk.”

“What do you want us to do?” Parrish asks. He’s standing opposite Stiles, and when he glances up, their eyes momentarily lock. Stiles quickly tears his away and sweeps them over the other detectives. 

“We don’t really have any idea what we’re getting into here,” Stiles continues. “The place is probably booby trapped. If there’s any evidence that points to someone’s life being in danger within the compound itself, we’re going to move in. At that point, we’ll need backup.”

“The group seems to primarily be using a white van,” Derek says, picking up where Stiles left off. “But it’s possible they have other vehicles, so if you see _anyone_ approaching our position, do not engage. Let us know.” 

“How long will this duty be?” one of the other detectives asks. Stiles shrugs. 

“Hopefully no more than a few hours, but we honestly have no idea. If you have something more important that you need to work on, you’re free to go.” 

“I’m staying,” Parrish says firmly. He leans across the hood and points at a mark near the first security gate. “We can set up right there, around the corner. We should be able to see all oncoming traffic without them seeing us. I can drive you to that point.” 

“That works for me,” Derek says quietly. 

“I’ll stay too,” the first female detective who spoke says. “I can stay with Parrish. You two,” she continues, nodding her head at the other two detectives, “can come replace us if the mission lasts longer than a few hours.” 

Just like that, things seem to be arranged. Stiles quickly glances around and, when he’s sure that none of them are going to change their minds, he nods and starts folding the map back up. 

“Alright. We’ll be ready in a minute.” 

The two detectives who are going to cover Parrish and the woman drive off. Stiles and Derek stand on the other side of Parrish’s car in order to change. Stiles sheds his work clothes as fast as possible, awkwardly stepping in and out of his boots so that his socked feet are touching the ground for the shortest amount of time possible. He barely even gets a chance to glance at Derek, although he does catch a quick look at his own torso in the reflective windows of Parrish’s car. While the marks on his neck may be safely covered up by concealer, his chest is a mess of red and purple blossoms of bruises. 

“You did a hell of a number on me,” he mutters, tugging his t-shirt back on. He layers the Kevlar vest on top, but when he tries to zip the jumpsuit up, it refuses to go any further than the middle of his chest. There’s no time to head back to the station and grab a slightly bigger jumpsuit so, after a moment of consideration, while Derek is bent over tucking the legs of his jumpsuit into his boots, Stiles peels the vest off and tosses it back into the trunk of Parrish's SUV. 

It’s not like the cult use firearms anyways. 

“I’m not sorry,” Derek belatedly responds. For half a moment, Stiles thinks about turning around, pinning Derek to the side of the car, and kissing him until it feels like his heart might stop, Parrish’s proximity be damned. 

He settles for simply replying with three words. 

“Neither am I.” 

&.

By the time they’ve loaded their pockets up with their supplies, including the food they picked up at the gas station, they’re both weighed down. When Stiles catches a glimpse of himself fully outfitted in the window, he bursts out laughing. He looks like one of the asshole poachers that infiltrate the Preserve during this time of the year, hoping to score a deer or a mountain lion for a trophy. 

Derek looks even more ridiculous. Camouflage does _not_ suit him, and if it were any other time, Stiles would tell him exactly that. But he has to get his game face on. This is _real_ , this is actually happening, this isn’t some abstract concept or plan. He's participated in a number of raids since he joined the CBI, but this is the first time he actually feels nervous, like he’s one wrong move away from fucking up and getting himself, or his partner, killed. 

He doesn’t bother putting his seatbelt on when he clambers into the backseat of Parrish’s SUV. He glances over at Derek, who is sitting with his hands clasped between his knees, gaze fixed on the floor, steady and hard as a pillar of rock. Stiles thinks about asking him if he’s here, if he’s present in the moment, but he’s not sure that Derek would even hear him. So he does his best to imitate him. He joins his fingers together, hangs his head, and closes his eyes. 

He supposes this is where he’d pray, if he had any beliefs. 

As is, all he can hope for is that he won’t fuck up. 

They don’t meet a single car on their way to the drop-off point. It’s still a little early in the year for campers, which Stiles is thankful for; it reduces the chance of there being any potential collateral damage. The road is still rutted and gouged from the winter, so it takes them fifteen minutes to bump their way to where the public trail intersects with the service road. They continue a little further, going around a slight curve in the road, and Parrish whips around in a neat three point turn until they’re facing the way they came. He nestles the SUV flush against the treeline, where it hopefully won’t be visible to anyone. 

“We’ll be using channel two,” Stiles says, adjusting the radio clipped to his left hip. “Don’t use it unless you absolutely have to.” 

“Got it,” Parrish says, glancing back at them in the rear-view mirror. After a moment, he twists around in his seat, until he’s facing the two of them. “If you need backup for any reason, call us. I mean it.” 

“We will,” Derek replies, checking the clip in his gun before sliding it back into his holster. “Thank you, Detective.” 

There’s still a distinctive note of frost in Derek’s voice, but it’s been mostly covered up by an all-business tone and, for now, that’s all Stiles can ask for. 

Once they’ve both slid out of the car, Derek comes around to stand beside Stiles, and the two of them simply stare into the forest for a few moments. The trees are fairly spread out, and the sight lines extend for miles across mostly flat land; at the very edge of the horizon, it starts climbing into a rise. 

“We’re going that way,” Derek says, pointing diagonally from their current position, eyes locked on the GPS locator cradled in his hand. “We’ll have to adjust at some point, so that we don’t approach the house head-on.” 

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Stiles says. Before they start walking, he pulls his phone from his pocket and turns it off. Derek does the same thing, and once he’s returned it to a pocket on his chest, he glances at Stiles. 

“You ready?” 

Stiles nods. 

“As ready as I’ll be ever be,” he says, and with that, he strides across the narrow road and into the trees on the other side, taking the first steps towards what he hopes will be the final confrontation of this case. 


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized that there was really no point in splitting the epilogue into two separate chapters so! only one more long one to go!

The forest is alive with sound; the trees are full of chirping birds, dead leaves and twigs crunch underneath Stiles’ feet, and the wind makes the skeletal branches stretching out above them rattle against each other. Stiles keeps one hand lingering near his hip, the clip of his holster undone, so that he can yank his gun out quickly if need be. Derek keeps his eye on the GPS locator, and every so often, he makes an adjustment to their route. 

They quickly lose all sight of civilization. The road where they disembarked from Parrish’s SUV disappears behind them once they pass over the first crest of land, and as they travel northwest, they never catch sight of the gated service road that the cult has been using for their own purposes.

They walk and walk and walk some more. After two hours, they stop for a quick break, but only after surveying the land and making sure that there are no booby traps lingering nearby. Crouching against the trunk of a towering oak, they quickly scarf down a bottle of water, passing it back and forth, and split a bag of jerky. Once they’re done, they stash the trash in their pockets and keep going.

They find the first booby trap an hour later. 

Derek keeps walking as he glances down at the GPS, checking their coordinates, and that’s when Stiles sees it. A shaft of late afternoon sunlight, piercing through a break in the trees, catches on a silver wire crossing between two trunks at ankle height. Before Derek can brush into it, Stiles slams his hand into his chest, knocking him back several steps. Derek glances up at him, thick eyebrows drawn together, but before he can say anything, Stiles simply points at the wire. Derek’s skin loses most of its color as his eyes follow the wire, and Stiles does the same, tracing it back to its source. 

The wire leads to a shotgun, tucked into the fork of a tree a few feet away. This one is not as nearly as rustic as the ones dotting the woods around Kincaid’s house had been; it’s gleaming and well-maintained, obviously more than capable of firing a killing shot. 

After that, it seems like there’s a new trap every hundred feet: more tripwires, a few bear traps that look sharp enough to sever a man’s leg, pits covered in dead leaves filled with sharpened sticks and rusted rebar. Every step feels like it could be Stiles’ last, and cold sweat drenches his forehead and back. 

Their pace slows to a crawl. By the time Derek stops him by tugging sharply on the back of the jumpsuit, it’s nearly four o’clock, and the forest is beginning to fill with rapidly lengthening shadows.

“Wait,” Derek murmurs. “I think I hear something.” Stiles catches the sound as well. It’s undoubtedly man-made, and after a moment, Stiles recognizes it as the hum of a generator. 

The land around them is uneven, which means that they can’t get an eyesight on the house from their current position. After Derek checks the GPS locator again, he stashes it into a thigh pocket and drops down to his stomach. Stiles mirrors him and, after a quick conversation conducted solely through a flurry of hand motions and eyebrow twitching, they start inching forward on their elbows and forearms, trying not to snap any twigs beneath them.

Eventually, they crest a small rise and, just like that, they’ve arrived. The land below dips down to a clearing, and the house is standing in the middle of it. Stiles isn’t sure if the cult built the place or if they simply stumbled upon it and took it over, but it obviously hasn’t received any tender loving care in years. The wooden planks forming the sides have started to buckle in spots, giving the whole structure the appearance of slowly sagging to the ground. Parts of the shingled roof are completely missing, leaving dark, gaping holes. Long grass straggles around the edge of the house. Where there should be a front door, there’s only another gaping hole, and all of the windows are shattered. Stiles can’t see anyone walking around inside, but with such an old house, having a cellar wouldn’t be out of the ordinary, so he can only assume that’s where they’re all cooped up. 

The generator is just beside the house, and its rumbling echos through the clearing. A white van and a battered truck with faded red paint are parked in front, but there’s no sign of anyone in the immediate vicinity. If it weren’t for the generators and the vehicles, Stiles would assume that they’d just stumbled onto the remains of someone’s homestead, but, between those elements and the booby traps, it seems very clear that this is either exactly the place they’ve been looking for or the stronghold of one of those paranoid end of the world types. 

Someone, Stiles doubts that it’s the latter. 

They back up until Stiles can barely see the roof of the house and hunker down into the dry grass sprouting from the earth. There’s a twig slowly grinding into Stiles’ ribs, but he doesn’t dare move. With a series of slow, almost silent movements, Derek manages to pull a bottle of water from one of his pockets. He passes it to Stiles, who drinks just enough to quench his parched throat, before he passes it back. 

And then, they wait. 

Within minutes, Stiles is twitchy, desperate with the desire to _move_. His foot wants to tap off the ground, and he wants to run his hands through his hair, but he can’t. If Derek is bothered by being completely motionless, he doesn’t show it. He doesn’t move a single inch. His eyes stay locked on the house, chin resting on his crossed arms. His legs stay still, stretched out behind him, half-buried under a layer of last year’s rotting leaves. He looks like a statue someone has simply dropped into the wilderness. 

Stiles tries to emulate him, but it’s a poor imitation at best, and the longer he forces himself to be still, the more anxiety builds up in each of his limbs, until he feels like he’s going to explode if he has to stay still much longer. 

Before he can see if simply stretching a little will relieve the anxiety, a faint human scream cuts through the sound of the generator. 

At his side, Derek lifts his head up. The scream pierces the air again, and while it’s impossible to tell exactly how far away it is, Stiles does know two things. 

The first is that it’s coming from the house. 

The second is that whoever is screaming is in absolute agony. 

He has a third suspicion, but before he can prove or disprove it, Derek does the work for him. 

“That’s Erica,” he hisses through gritted teeth. 

“You sure?” Stiles asks. Another scream, this one trailing off quicker than the other two, bursts forth from the direction of the house, and Derek nods, lips clenched into a thin, firm line. 

“I’m sure,” he mutters. With that, he starts inching up the rise, towards where it flattens before sloping down to the clearing. Stiles calls his name a few times, even reaches forward and snags his fingers on Derek’s pant leg, but it doesn’t stop him from moving. Stiles mutters _fuck_ under his breath and starts crawling as well. As he tries to catch up with Derek, he yanks his radio from his pocket and, pressing his thumb to the talk button, hisses into it. 

“Parrish, can you hear me?” 

“Stiles?” Parrish replies, voice crackling through static. “Is everything alright?” 

“We’ve confirmed that one of Derek’s informants is in the building. We’re going in. Get here as fast as you can, and watch out for booby traps in the trees. Maybe bring an ambulance. Over and out.” With that, he turns the radio back off and returns it to his pocket. Derek has made it halfway down the slope and has pulled himself up into a crouch, pressed against a wide tree trunk. Stiles diverges from the path until he finds shelter of his own against a trunk across from Derek. Derek is staring down at the house, looking like he’s about to bolt for it, and Stiles waves his hand until his partner turns and looks at him. 

He isn’t exactly sure how to indicate that Derek needs to slow down without actually speaking, so he hopes that the meaningful flicker of his eyes from Derek to the house and back again will be enough. 

Instead, Derek talks. 

“You don’t have to come with me,” he whispers. “You can stay and wait for backup.” 

“Of course I have to come with you,” Stiles retorts, trying to ignore the anxiety and adrenaline flooding every inch of his body. “Someone has to stop you from getting killed.” Derek sighs and nods at him before he slips back into total business mode, jaw locked, fingers drawing his pistol out of its holster. He slowly leans around the tree, peering over at the house, and Stiles mimics him. There’s been no screams for a few minutes, and aside from the generator and vehicles, there’s no other sign of anyone else. 

There’s no obvious booby traps within sight, but Stiles still feels like they’re about to run straight to their death. 

But Derek shows no sign of stopping, so when he slides around the tree, Stiles follows him. 

Eventually, they make it to the front of the house. Even though Stiles tries to step carefully, glass from the destroyed windows crunches underneath his boots as they approach the gaping entrance. The sun has almost fully dropped beneath the treeline now, and shadows flood the interior of the house, making it difficult to tell if there’s anyone lingering just inside. 

They make it to the entrance without incident, and after a moment of silent consultation, they pivot and slide inside. No tripwires cross the hallway, no bear traps hide in the corners, and the floor doesn’t give away to spike pits. The rooms that they pass are almost totally devoid of furniture; what little remains is in heaps of splinters and nails. Garbage litters the corners. The stairs to the upper level are impassable, buckling and caving in just like the porch and the roof. There’s no way that this part of this house is used by the cult at all, and Stiles starts to wonder if there’s been some kind of mistake. 

But then Erica screams again. 

The sound is much closer this time. Derek whips around, finger snaking towards the trigger of his gun, vulnerability passing over his face for a fraction of a moment. He slowly steps down the hall towards the few rooms they haven’t glanced in yet, and Stiles follows along, keeping his gaze turned towards the front door, so that no one can get the jump on them. When they reach the back door of the house, which is miraculously still hanging in its frame, they’re met with a room on either side. The one on the right may have been a dining room at some point; there’s a table lying upturned in the middle of the room, surrounded by broken chairs. The room on the left, which was obviously a kitchen, looks far more promising. Appliances still line the walls, streaked with dirt and grime, probably home to more than a few animals. The linoleum flooring is cracked and peeling in the corners. Where it’s intact, it’s covered in overlapping footprints. 

If that wasn’t a sign that they’re on the right path, the door hanging open on the other side of the room would be. 

Stiles’ suspicions about a cellar seem to be correct. There’s a bare bulb hanging just inside the door frame, swaying slightly on its wire as a breeze sweeps through the windows. It’s illuminated, presumably by the power of the generator, but its light only extends a few feet into the stairwell. 

Stiles thinks he saw a horror movie like this once. There’s so much that could go wrong on those steps; his mind positively reels with the possibilities. 

But it’s their only way down. 

Before Derek can go rushing down the stairs, Stiles decides to try something, just in case. Slowly, he opens one of his pockets, the one containing the empty water bottle from earlier when they had stopped to rest. He inches it out and, once he has it firmly in his hands, he tosses it down the stairwell. 

Nothing happens. The water bottle simply drops to the ground with a muted thud. With that, Stiles catches Derek’s eye and nods at him.

As soon as his boots touch the first step, Stiles is committed. 

There’s no going back now. 

The staircase terminates in a perfectly square room with cinderblock walls and an earthen floor. Wooden shelves line each wall, filled with bottled water, canned goods, and other supplies. The air is damp, and the temperature drop is astounding. While there’s no light in the actual cellar itself, there _is_ light coming from the tunnel that has been carved out of one wall, leaving an irregular rectangular entrance. The tunnel twists off for a few yards before it takes a sharp right. A string of lights trails along the roof of the tunnel, which is shored up expertly with two by fours at regular intervals. Plastic sheeting covers the walls, nailed to the boards. 

Stiles quickly glances at Derek. He’s pale, and beads of sweat are lining his hairline, but he also looks _angry_. Stiles is pretty sure that if someone were to come into the room right now, Derek would try to tear them to pieces with his bare hands. 

Stiles doesn’t blame him. 

Actually, he’d probably join in.

They move into the mouth of the tunnel, holding their guns close by their sides. The floor is hard-packed soil, which muffles their footsteps as they proceed further. Once they reach the first turn, Stiles takes the lead, presses himself against the side of the wall and simply listens for a few moments. He can hear music drifting from somewhere, but it’s impossible to tell if it’s right around the corner or farther down the hallway. Slowly, he leans out, one inch at a time, until he can see around the corner. 

This hallway is only slightly longer than the one they’re currently standing in, and it forks at the end. Two doorways lead off it. The first, which is kitty corner to their current position, has an old, faded sheet tacked above it. The other is further up the wall, on the right side, and it’s impossible to tell what lies within from their current position. 

They dart across the hallway to the first doorway, switching positions so Derek doing the lookout while Stiles gently grasps the sheet and pulls it aside.

The only thing waiting for them on the other side is some kind of dining area. Two metal tables are set up, pressed against the wall on either side of the room. Battered folding chairs, six to a table, march along either side. The tabletops are stained and pitted, and there’s a garbage can at the back of the room overflowing with trash and paper plates. While there’s definitely a hint of rot to the room, it’s not as strong as it should be, and Stiles discovers the reason for it when he steps further into the room. 

There’s an makeshift air shaft in the back corner of the room. Stiles can’t see out of it, but when he cranes up on his toes, he inhales crisp forest air. 

“Well, they’re smart,” he mutters, taking another glance around the room. “I’ll give them that.” Derek nods grudgingly, and, after peeking back around the sheet, they step back out into the hallway and proceed to the next room. 

There’s no lights inside, but there’s enough light from the hallway for Stiles to see that the room is a primitive bedroom. There are three iron framed cots in the small space, their bare, stained mattresses covered with thin blankets. The room smells like the rest of the place so far, like damp and dust, but there’s also notes of urine and blood. There’s no sign of any personal effects, no indication that anyone has ever tried to make the room a little homier. 

Stiles has a feeling that’s because the current occupants of the room aren't there willingly. 

Two of the beds have people in them, people who appear to be asleep somehow, even with the screams. They’re covered up with the blankets and, based on the small size of the lumps, both of them are street kids. In both cases, one foot protrudes from the blanket, secured to the bed frame by a handcuff that’s locked around their skinny ankles. 

“We have to come back for them,” he murmurs, pressing his mouth almost directly against Derek’s ear so that he can hear him. 

“We will,” Derek says, and despite the low volume of his voice, he says it so forcefully that Stiles knows he means it with every inch of his being. “But we have to keep moving.” Stiles nods and, after listening a moment for footsteps or rustling, they step back out into the hall. The fork is only a few yards ahead of them, and just before they reach the actual junction, Derek stops, back pressed against the wall, and glances over at Stiles, silently asking his opinion on how to proceed. 

Before Stiles can consider their options, a long brown arm, tipped with gnarled yellow claws filed into sharp points, whips around the corner of the wall, wraps around Derek’s neck and yanks hard, pulling him back against the owner’s chest. 

“You just couldn’t stay away, could you?” It’s a voice Stiles has heard before, more like a snake's hiss than a werewolf’s growl, smothered in rage. 

“Hey, Kali,” Stiles says, bringing his gun up to shoulder height. “I see your leg healed.” 

“It did.” She’s half-buried behind Derek’s bulk. One of her arms is wrapped tight around Derek’s neck, flush against the bottom of his chin, yanking his head back onto her shoulder. The other is draped over his shoulder, and her disgusting pseudo claws are pressing directly into the stretched taut skin of his throat. Even as Stiles watches, a trickle of blood appears from between her claws, flowing down under the collar of his jumpsuit. 

“Did you come to rescue your friends?” she croons, twisting her head and rubbing her cheek against the side of Derek’s face. “Did you hear them screaming?” Derek doesn’t say anything, but the muscle in his jaw twitches.

“Kali, let him go,” Stiles says automatically, not at all expecting it to work. Kali flashes a savage grin at him, her incisors sharp enough to tear through flesh, before she turns back to Derek. 

“They’d never make it in our group,” she murmurs, mouth too close to his jugular for Stiles’ comfort. “We’ve almost broken the girl. The boy is strong, but it’s only a matter of time.” Her fingers tighten even further, and a thicker stream of blood soaks the collar of Derek’s jumpsuit. “Maybe I’ll make you watch her die. Or maybe we’ll just keep you in the next room, so you can hear her scream until I rip her throat out. Just like I ripped out your pretty partner’s throat back in San Diego.” 

Derek’s eyes go wide.

“What are you going to do with me?” Stiles asks. If he lets Kali continue down that path, taunt Derek about Kate’s death, he has a feeling this whole thing is going to go belly-up. Kali glances over at him, a cruel smirk twisting her red painted lips, and her fingers minutely loosen. 

“You?” she scoffs. “You can wait around to watch Derek die, and then we’ll dump your body on your father’s doorstep. Sound like a plan?”

Shooting her in the thigh isn’t a viable option this time; it would probably just piss her off, serve as a catalyst for her to rake her nails across Derek’s throat. The only other option Stiles has is her neck, which is almost as dangerous. He has maybe an inch of leeway, and if there were any other alternative, he wouldn’t risk it. The chance of hitting Derek is too high. 

But either he shoots and maybe kills Derek or he _doesn’t_ shoot and Derek probably dies anyway.

“No,” he replies, steeling himself for what he’s about to do. With that, he makes a small adjustment and pulls the trigger just as Kali opens her mouth to respond. The bullet tears through the side of her neck and severs her jugular. Great spouts of blood pump from her throat like a firehouse, spraying the walls and floor. A gurgle leaves her mouth, and Derek ducks out of her grip, knocking her backwards to the ground. 

“Stiles, down!” he yells, pulling his gun from his holster and aiming it straight at Stiles’ head. Stiles doesn’t think; he simply drops to the ground, hands sliding into a pool of Kali’s warm blood. A bullet goes flying by overhead, and the sound seems loud as cannon fire in the enclosed space. It strikes true with a wet thud, and something lands heavily on Stiles’ outstretched legs. When he twists around to look, the person’s haircut (or rather, what remains of the haircut, what wasn’t obliterated by the bullet that smashed through their brain), looks awfully familiar to him. 

“Is that who I think it is?” he asks, pulling his legs out from underneath the corpse. 

“Yeah,” Derek says, lowering his gun. “That’s the other twin.” 

“Good riddance.” Stiles slowly gets back to his feet and wipes Kali’s blood on his legs. She’s not quite dead yet; blood is still spurting from her neck, although in smaller bursts. Her feet are drumming against the floor, and her eyes are fixed on Stiles, glaring at him with nothing less than absolute fury. 

Stiles just barely bites the urge to spit on her. 

“Well, they know we’re here now,” Derek says, wiping his sweat-slick forehead. The wounds on his throat have already stopped bleeding, but Stiles leans in to peer at them anyways. 

“You alright?” Derek nods. 

“I’ll be fine,” he answers. “Let’s keep moving. Before more of them show up.” 

They take the right fork of the tunnel, since it’s the direction that Kali appeared from. They only quickly stop to peer into the rooms that they pass, more focused on following the sounds of Erica’s screams, which continue intermittently. They’re joined now and then by a deep, loud groan that Derek says belongs to Boyd.

They see more street kids in some of the rooms, handcuffed to cots or wooden beams. Most of them have been awakened by the commotion and, as much as it pains Stiles to leave them in their current position, stopping for even a few seconds could allow someone to get the jump on them. 

“Help is on the way,” he says, hating how weak it sounds coming from his mouth, even though it’s true. 

In two of the rooms, they come across bodies. They’re bloated, their flesh is dappled purple and red, and the whole room smells of their decay. It’s all Stiles can do to swallow back both vomit and rage as they continue onward. 

They come across a handful of full-fledged cult members. Thankfully, most of them surrender as soon as Derek and Stiles point their guns directly at their faces and, using the zip-ties stuffed into their jumpsuits, they cuff them by pulling their arms behind their backs and lacing their hands together above their forearms so that they can’t use their claws (some just have sharpened nails, while others are wearing the metal sets) or sharpened incisors to rip through them.

The ones that don’t surrender come roaring at them and end up with a bullet for their troubles. Stiles doesn’t allow himself much time to think about them as they keep progressing, moving further and further into the twisted web of tunnels. 

He just hopes that, to them, dying for such a stupid cause was worth it. 

As they keep moving, sounds start to echo through the tunnels behind them; Stiles occasionally catches what sounds like the crackle of a radio and a yelled command. Backup seems to have arrived, but it’s impossible to tell just how close they are, and Stiles is pretty sure that Derek isn’t capable of stopping and waiting for Parrish and the others to catch up with them, and he’s not letting Derek forge ahead on his own, especially not after what happened with Kali. 

Eventually, the tunnels start to slope gently upwards, and it looks like some kind of half-ass attempt at home improvement has taken place in this part of the lair. Parts of the floor are covered with fake linoleum tiles, and the lights hanging from the ceiling are actually domed and covered, like in a proper home. Grotesquely, there are even a few spots where paintings and prints have been tacked to the beams strapping the walls. Stiles presumes that this is the living quarters for the fully initiated members of the cult. 

Their dedication to the moon _must_ be real if even the most important of them are fine with living in such shitty quarters. 

They’re peering into a room that appears to be another dining area when another of Erica’s screams splits the air. This one is almost deafeningly loud, and Derek whips around on his heels.

“Erica!” he yells at the top of his lungs. Stiles understands why Derek does it; he can see the desperation written across his face clear as day. But it totally eliminates any advantage they may have had. 

“Derek!” The voice that answers is far deeper, obviously Boyd’s. Derek runs from the room, and Stiles bolts after him. There’s another fork in the path up ahead, and Derek takes a left without pausing. Stiles does the same. 

It’s just a moment of lost concentration, but that’s all it takes. 

He doesn’t hear the gunshot, but he feels it slam into his right shoulder as hard as a hammer blow. The impact knocks him off his feet, and he slams face first into the ground, choking on dirt that flies into his mouth. 

Apparently, the wolves are more than happy to use something beyond their stupid claws and fangs when it comes down to it. Stiles almost wants to laugh. 

Fucking posers.

Another gunshot rips through the air, and he manages to turn his head just in time to see his attacker drop to the ground, their forehead torn open by Derek’s bullet. Unfortunately, his attacker being deceased doesn’t do anything for the state of his arm. When Stiles tries to lift it off the ground, nothing happens. It simply remains where it is, absolutely useless. Gouts of sticky blood are already soaking his back and shoulder, plastering his jumpsuit to the wound. Even though he’s already lying down, the room is swaying brutally, like he’s just stepped off an intense carnival ride. 

The pain is all encompassing, like a series of fireworks going off underneath his skin, complete with colors flashing behind his eyes. Every minute movement he makes causes the pain to spike in intensity. He has enough brainpower left to recognize that he most likely got shot in the nerve complex that sits just below his shoulder joint. His brachial plexus, he thinks it’s called. 

He doesn’t know how the fuck he remembers that. 

“Stiles!” Derek drops to his knees in front of him and pulls Stiles into a seated position. His skin is ghostly white, and he looks so goddamn vulnerable and small that Stiles has to blink to make sure he’s actually looking at Derek and not another cult member. “Jesus Christ, Stiles.” 

“Derek, you need to go,” Stiles says. The taste of blood is thick in his mouth; based on the pain thrumming along his tongue, he bit it as he fell to the ground. “You need to get Erica and Boyd.” 

“I can’t leave you,” he says in a panicked tone, pressing his hand _hard_ against the gunshot wound. Some part of Stiles’ mind knows that it’s the right thing to do, but it sends him plummeting into a depth of agony that he didn’t know existed, and a scream rips its way through his throat. 

“You have to!” he manages to yell once the agony has abated some. At the moment, Derek is being a good human being but a piss poor detective. His back is to the tunnel, and it would be all too easy for someone to sneak up on him and boom, that would make two dead detectives. “Our backup will be here soon. Go save them. Derek, _go_!” Derek’s eyes dart around the tunnel. The hand that isn’t pressing against Stiles’ shoulder runs through his hair, which already looks spattered with blood. 

“Fuck,” he whimpers. With his free hand, he starts yanking open pockets on his jumpsuit. Stiles’ eyes flicker open and closed a few times. Regardless of whether they’re open or not, he can see the fireworks arcing across his vision in great bursts of colors. They flick open again in time to see Derek pull a long spool of rope from one of his pockets. 

“This is going to hurt,” he says, winding the rope underneath Stiles’ armpit and up his back. Stiles can see him in his peripheral vision, fingers twisting together some kind of knot. “I’m sorry.” 

When Derek pulls the knot tight against Stiles’ wound, Stiles completely blacks out. 

He’s only out for a few seconds. When he comes to, Derek is clapping one hand to the side of Stiles’ face. His forehead drops gently against Stiles’, and he’s so close that if it were any under circumstances, Stiles would lean up and kiss him. 

He’s pretty sure that if he tried to do that right now, he’d either pass out or cover Derek’s face in blood. 

“Don’t die,” he murmurs. 

“Then get going, you fucking softie,” Stiles replies. Forcing the words out is as painful as pulling teeth. “I’ll be here when you get back.” Derek lingers for a few moments but thankfully, before Stiles has to scream at him again, he gets to his feet and starts running down the tunnel, yelling Erica and Boyd’s names. Although Stiles knows they’re extremely close, their responses sound like they’re coming from a great distance. The sound of Derek’s footsteps quickly fades, and he’s left with the sounds of his own labored breathing and his heartbeat roaring like the ocean in his ears. 

He manages to get his left thumb hooked into his gun, which is lying on the floor, and he tugs it up to rest in his lap before he returns his hand to his shoulder, trying to put as much pressure on the knot as he can. He’s not sure how much good the gun will do if someone else _does_ come along; he’s not exactly ambidextrous at the best of times, let alone when the whole damn room is spinning, but he’s sure as hell not going out with some kind of a fight. 

As time passes, it becomes harder and harder to sit up straight. His face slides closer and closer to the blessedly cold ground as he slumps over his uninjured arm. Every time he tries to return to a normal sitting position, it’s more and more difficult, and he eventually stops trying.

He floats in and out of consciousness. Every time he returns to the waking world, he’s more exhausted. The pain in his shoulder waxes and wanes, peaks and plummets. 

He’s thought about he was going to die a number of times; it was common when he was a teenager, still dealing with the death of his mother, wondering how exactly he would end up going out. He’s known for years that it was all too possible things would end like this: bleeding out on a dirty floor, waiting for help that probably won’t arrive in time. 

But having thought about it ahead of time doesn’t make the reality any easier to bear.

He doesn’t know which of his pockets is housing his phone, and even if he _did_ know, he’s putting all of his energy into pressing the knotted rope into his shoulder, but he wishes desperately that he could call Scott, just to hear his best friend’s voice last time. 

He wishes a lot of things. 

The inside of his mouth tastes like a rusted penny, and he cranes his head onto his uninjured shoulder so that he can spit into the dirt. Blood spews from his mouth and dribbles down his chin. 

More lights abruptly swarm his eyes, and he collapses fully onto his side, legs curled up towards his chest. When he shifts, he can feel the fabric around the wound tugging at his skin, stuck to it by his blood. 

He really hopes he isn’t awake when they pull it away from him. 

A few moments later, he realizes that he can actually see someone moving towards him. His vision is going double, but recognition sparks in his mind as the person drops to their knees in front of him and lays two fingers on his throat, searching for his pulse. 

“Parrish?” he croaks, choking on a thick bubble of blood. 

“Yeah, it’s me,” Parrish replies. After a moment, he takes his fingers away from Stiles’ throat and gently wraps them around Stiles’ left wrist. “I need to see the wound.” 

“Gunshot,” Stiles mumbles, eyes closing on their own accord as he lets his uninjured arm sag to the ground. “Hurts like a motherfucker.” 

“I know. I’m sorry for this.” Before Stiles can ask _sorry for what_ , Parrish presses his hand down on the wound, and the sudden increase in pressure makes Stiles fall into blackness again.

When he next comes to, he’s on his back, and there’s something hard supporting his whole body. Lights are passing by overhead, but they’re brighter than the fairy lights that have been swarming his vision since he was shot. 

“Are Erica and Boyd safe?” he asks, not sure if the words are actually leaving his mouth or if they’re getting stuck in his throat. “Is Derek safe?” 

“Everyone is safe,” Parrish says from somewhere behind his head. When Stiles tries to twist his head to find him, his forehead shifts against the rough tie-down strap of a backboard, and an extraordinary amount of pain goes shooting through what feels like every nerve in his body. “They’re fine, Stiles.” 

“Oh,” Stiles says, letting his head sag down. “Good.” 

He passes out again and this time, real consciousness doesn’t return for a very long time.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and here we are! more detailed author's note is at the end but basically, enjoy!

He wakes up in the hospital.

It takes him a few moments to blink the blurriness away from his eyes and get a proper look at his surroundings. There’s a window on his left, and based on the darkness that greets him on the other side of the thin curtains, it’s either the middle of the night or very early in the morning. The overhead lights are turned off, but there’s light drifting in from the tiny window set into the door. Somehow, he’s managed to secure a private room, and he can’t help but wonder how much that’s going to set the CBI back. There’s an IV in his left arm, and his right arm is encased in bandages and a sling. There’s a dull throb at the site of the wound, a throb that is almost undoubtedly being considerably muffled by morphine. The chair on his right is currently unoccupied, but there’s a jacket slung over it that looks distinctly like his father’s. 

The chair on the left, however, is very much occupied. 

Derek is fast asleep with his cheek resting on Stiles’ sheets next to his hip. His lips are parted slightly, and his breathing is slow and regular. Stiles tries to gently rest his hand on top of Derek’s head, but he lowers it a little harder than he intends, and Derek sits bolt upright, eyes shooting open. A clipboard resting on his lap clatters to the floor, along with a pen and loose sheets of paperwork. He looks like he’s been through the wringer; one of his eyes is swelled nearly shut, and the skin around it is the ugliest shade of purple Stiles has ever seen. The wounds on his neck still have blood crusted to them. His hair is a greasy, disheveled mess, and he’s still wearing the hideous camouflage jumpsuit. 

He’s the most spectacular thing Stiles has ever seen. 

“Hey,” he croaks through a mouth dry as sandpaper. 

“Hey,” Derek replies, blinking dazedly. “Are you thirsty?” 

“You have _no_ idea.” Derek leans over the edge of his chair and comes back with a bottle of water. There’s already a pink straw jauntily perched in it, and Stiles eagerly wraps his lips around it when Derek holds it out to him. 

“I stockpiled some pudding cups for you too,” Derek says. Stiles makes an appreciative noise as he sucks down the water. He knows that he probably should slow down, but he’s so damn thirsty that he can’t bring himself to stop. Unfortunately, Derek makes that choice for him by pulling the bottle away from him after he’s managed to drain a third of it. 

“Why are you still here?” Stiles asks, collapsing back against the cushions. He doesn’t mean it in a rude way, but he’d expected Derek to be overwhelmed with the administrative bullshit that always comes when you fire your gun, let alone kill multiple people with it. 

“I needed to make sure that you were okay.”

“Well, _okay_ is one way to put it.” He tries to flex the fingers on his right side, but they barely twitch against the sheets. “Did they tell you anything about this?” 

“A little. The bullet basically destroyed your brachial plexus. There’s no fragments in there, but they’ll need to do more surgeries to repair the nerves.” 

“Fucking great,” Stiles sighs, curling his left hand into a fist and trying to resist the urge to slam it into the nearest unyielding surface. He’s sure the doctor has more information for him but, going solely off what Derek has said, he’ll have to undergo months of physical therapy on top of the surgeries just to have the slightest hope of getting his right arm to function properly again. Even if that _does_ magically happen, he’s probably going to be stuck at a desk job for the next few years (that is, if the Internal Affairs investigations he’s undoubtedly going to get hit with don’t get him fired first). 

He’s not made for desk jobs. He needs to be out and about, on the move, needs to be solving things, not just pushing a pen around his desk. 

Essentially, unless the doctors manage to pull off a glorified miracle, his career is over. 

“Is my dad here?” he asks, forcing himself to swallow over the lump in his throat. 

“Yeah,” Derek replies, and it’s only then Stiles notices that Derek’s hand has draped over his curled fist like a curtain. “He just went to get some coffee. He’s been here since you came out of surgery.” 

“Stiles?” Right on cue, his dad’s voice drifts from the direction of the door. When Stiles glances over, his dad is silhouetted in the entrance, fingers wrapped around a paper cup of coffee.

“Hey, Dad,” Stiles rasps. Something akin to a choke leaves his father’s mouth as he crosses the room. He sets his coffee on the nightstand beside Stiles’ bed and drops heavily into his chair, sagging like a broken piñata. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks, scooting the chair closer to the bed. 

“Fucking awful,” Stiles replies honestly. “But I’m alive.” 

“Yeah,” his dad whispers, tears flowing over the deep lines of his face. He drops his hand to Stiles’ and squeezes tightly, although Stiles feels no more than a gentle pinch. “You are.” 

He hasn’t seen his dad cry for years, and it sets him off. Warm pinpricks of heat appear behind his eyes and then spill over, burning trails down his cheeks. He doesn’t bother fighting them. He simply closes his eyes and lets them come, lets his chest heave with sobs. 

“I can leave, if you want,” Derek murmurs, and Stiles shakes his head, twists his hand around so that he can properly lock his fingers with Derek’s. 

“Don’t you fucking move,” he says, his tongue thick with the taste of salt as tears drip into his mouth. 

Derek says. 

Eventually, face still wet with tears, Stiles drifts off again. 

&.

The next time he wakes up, the sun is filtering through the curtains.

His dad is asleep, stretched out in the chair with his head drooping towards his chest. Derek is sipping from a cup of still steaming coffee, scribbling something down on the clipboard balanced across his knee. His black eye still looks awful, but the blood on his neck has been cleaned off, and his hair is clean. His utility jumpsuit is gone, replaced by worn looking jeans and a leather jacket over a v-neck. 

“What happened?” Stiles asks, rubbing at his eyes. 

“What do you mean?” 

“At the compound. What happened with the kids?” 

Derek gives him all the information he has. They pulled twelve people out of the compound, ages ranging from twelve to twenty-five, in varying stages of health but all suffering from neglect and malnutrition. Some of them had been close to becoming fully fledged members of the cult; their nails and teeth had been sharpened, and they’d tried to attack the officers that had come to rescue them. They were apparently still exploring the expansive tunnel network but, as of the last time Derek heard from Parrish, they’d come across four bodies, with more almost certainly buried in the woods outside. All told, they’d recovered eight fully fledged cult members alive, plus the six that Derek and Stiles had shot dead on their way to find Erica and Boyd, who have both been hospitalized as well. They’ll recover physically, although they were definitely tortured extensively; Derek doesn’t go into details, but Stiles still hears Erica’s screams echoing through his head. 

By the time Derek finishes talking, Stiles’ head is swimming with information. There’s going to be some sort of inquiry; there always is, when a situation of this magnitude occurs, and unless his dad thinks quickly, the CBI is going to discover that he pulled some strings and enabled Stiles and Derek to get into this mess without proper clearance. 

If that occurs, Stiles will do everything he can to keep his dad from losing his job. He’s essentially already lost his; the CBI doesn’t need to lose both of them in such a short period of time even if, granted, it’s probably justified. 

While he’s trying to process everything that Derek has told him, his mind drifts, and he sits up straight, hard enough for his arm to throb. 

“Has anyone told Scott yet?” he asks, glancing around the room for his possessions, hoping that his cellphone is within reach. 

“I haven’t,” Derek replies. “You didn’t come out of surgery until three o’clock in the morning. He wouldn’t have been able to come in and see you. They were reluctant to let _us_ stay through the night.” 

“I need your phone then.” Derek obligingly surrenders his phone from his pocket, and Stiles quickly glances at the time to make sure that he’s not about to wake anyone up. Thankfully, it’s not too early, and after a moment of struggling with his memory, he manages to bring Scott’s number to the forefront of his brain and dial it. After two excruciatingly long rings, Scott picks up. 

“Hello?” His voice is rife with confusion, and it takes Stiles a moment to connect that to the fact that he’s using Derek’s phone and Scott won’t recognize the number. 

“Scott, it’s me. Sorry, I’m on Derek’s phone.” 

“Hey man!” Scott replies, sounding almost overwhelmingly chipper. “Is everything alright? I heard that there was some major operation out in the Preserve last night. Was that you guys?” 

“It sure was. We got the bastards.”

“Oh, thank God,” Scott sighs in relief. “Are you and Derek alright?” 

“Depends on your definition of alright. Derek’s got one of the grossest black eyes I’ve ever seen, and I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to properly use my right arm again. Gunshot wounds suck just about as much as you’d expect.” 

The line is silent for a very long time. When Scott does speak again, the joviality has drained from his voice. Instead, he sounds like he’s on the verge of tears, like he’s talking over a lump in his throat. 

“What room are you in?” 

“I have no idea,” he answers, looking to Derek for clarification. 

“802,” Derek replies, scribbling something else on the clipboard, and Stiles repeats the answer to Scott. 

“We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

Stiles says his goodbyes and passes the phone back to Derek. A few seconds later, his dad yawns and sits up. 

“Is everything alright?” he mumbles, peering blearily around the room. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes seem especially pronounced and, not for the first time, the idea that his dad is actually _aging_ smacks Stiles across the mind. 

“Yeah,” he replies. “You haven’t missed much. Scott and Kira are going to be coming by in a few minutes. Hopefully the nurses will let them in.” 

“I’ll make sure that they do.” With a groan, his dad gets to his feet, various joints popping as he stretches. “Need to get some coffee anyways. Want some, Derek?” 

“That would be great, sir,” Derek replies. Stiles’ father scrubs his hand down his face, mumbles _alright_ , and swings his jacket over his shoulder as he steps from the room. Once he’s gone, Stiles twists to face Derek.

“Sir? Really?” 

“He’s still my superior,” Derek retorts. “And yours too, I might add.” 

“Not right now,” Stiles says. “Right now, he’s just my dad.” Before he can add anything else, his stomach growls viciously. “When do they serve breakfast in this joint?” 

“Not sure. Want a pudding cup?” Stiles vaguely remembers Derek saying something about stockpiling them, back when he first woke up, and his stomach growls again. 

“Fuck yes.” Derek places his clipboard on the floor, reaches under the bed, and comes back with a chocolate pudding cup and a spoon wrapped in plastic. Before Stiles can try to figure out how exactly to eat with only one arm (and his weak arm at that), Derek rips the plastic off the spoon and tears the lid off the pudding. 

“Here,” he says, passing Stiles the spoon. “I’ll hold this.” It feels a little like coddling, but frankly, he’s too fucking hungry to care, so he accepts the spoon and Derek’s help. Derek holds the cup steady as he rapidly spoons pudding into his mouth, the sugar tasting like heaven. When he’s done, Derek gets up and throws away the trash. 

“Did they say anything about me having to remain in bed?” he asks once Derek returns to his chair. 

“I mean, you probably should,” Derek replies with a frown. “Why?” 

“Because, frankly, I have to piss, and seeing as I don’t think there’s a catheter in me, I’m going to need someone’s help getting up.” 

“I’ll go get a nurse,” Derek says, getting back to his feet. “That’s one thing I’m not helping you with.” 

“And here I thought you actually cared,” Stiles says, laying the sarcasm on as thick as he can. Derek stops in the doorway, turns and flashes a perfect middle finger at him. 

Stiles is so proud that he almost cries. 

A nurse comes along a few minutes later and helps him get out of bed. His legs are a little wobbly, and shifting the wrong way makes pain spike up his arm, even through the morphine, but it still feels good to be up and about. The bathroom is on the other side of the room, and he takes his sweet time getting there, pulling along the IV stand behind him. 

Thankfully, once he gets to the bathroom, he doesn’t need any further help, and the nurse waits outside. Stiles does his business, and while he’s washing his hands, he gets a good glimpse of himself in the mirror. 

Frankly, he looks like pounded hell. He may not have a shiner like Derek, but his hair is a disgusting mess of grease and matted blood. His skin is pale and waxy, and there are dark, stiff bristles poking through his upper lip and cheeks. His concealer wore off at some point and, although some of them have faded, Derek and Parrish’s hickeys are still present on his throat. It’s impossible to tell what his gunshot wound looks like; it’s swaddled in bandages and covered by the sling and thin white hospital gown (which, thankfully, is closed at the back). There are bruises and cuts littering the exposed portions of his arms, and when he runs his free hand down his torso, he can feel more blossoming against his skin. 

He looks like shit, and he _feels_ like shit, but he’s alive. Derek is alive, Erica and Boyd are alive, the rest of their informants are unharmed and, most importantly, they’ve shut the bastards down before they could murder any more vulnerable children. 

If the price to pay for all that is a fucked up arm and the loss of his job, Stiles is willing to pay it. 

He washes his hands and face and brushes his teeth using supplies he finds in a cabinet above the sink before he steps back out into his room. His dad hasn’t returned yet, and Derek is hovering near the entrance. 

“Scott and Kira are here,” he informs Stiles as he slowly walks back to his bed, the nurse trailing after him, making sure that all of his lines are still plugged in. “I’m going to go find your father.” 

“You don’t have to leave,” Stiles says, twisting around and getting his ass onto the mattress. 

“It’s fine. You should have your time with them. We’ll be back eventually.” With that, he disappears out the door. The nurse attaches him back to his heart monitor, checks on his bandages, makes a note on the clipboard hanging off the end of the bed. Stiles knows that it’s all necessary, but all he wants to do is see Scott, and every second that she takes to check something feels like an infinity. Thankfully, just when he feels like he could scream, she stands up straight again and gives him a small smile. 

“I’ll send your visitors in.” 

“Thank you,” he replies, genuinely meaning it. She steps outside and a few seconds later, Scott and Kira take her place. Lily is cradled in Scott’s arms, still half-asleep, her head resting against his shoulder. 

“We didn’t have anywhere to take her on such short notice,” Kira says by way of explanation as they come to stand beside the bed.

“I don’t mind,” Stiles says, adjusting the pillows shoved behind his back so that he can sit up as straight as possible. “Hey, sweetheart.” 

“Hi,” she mumbles, rubbing her eyes with one chubby fist. “Did you get hurt?” 

“Just a little,” he replies, reaching out and taking the hand that she waves at him. “But I’ll be okay. Promise.” She squeezes his finger tightly and, when she drops it, Scott passes her over to Kira. Even in the relatively dim light of the hospital room, Stiles can tell that Scott’s been crying; his eyelids are puffy, and the veins in his eyes are bright red. After a moment where his arms awkwardly hover in front of him, he leans in and wraps both of his arms tightly around Stiles’ neck. 

“It’s good to see you, buddy,” Scott whispers and, just like that, more tears start plummeting from Stiles’ eyes. 

“Yeah,” he chokes, wrapping his uninjured arm around Scott’s ribs. “It’s good to see you too.” 

&.

Scott and Kira stay for almost an hour. They don't talk any further about Stiles’ arm or the investigation; they just shoot the shit, and Stiles has never been so relieved in his entire life. He’s disappointed to see them go, but they both have jobs to get to, and they promise to come back as soon as they can (which, if Stiles knows Scott, will probably be in the afternoon as soon as he’s done work). The nurse brings him breakfast on a plastic tray as they’re leaving and, amazingly, it doesn’t look half bad. There’s scrambled eggs and three strips of crispy bacon, plus two pieces of buttered toast and a mug of room-temperature coffee. Stiles drinks it black, gulping it down as fast as he can. He isn’t sure how easy eating the eggs will be with only one hand, so he tackles the toast next, cramming it into his mouth. 

He’s just grabbed the first piece of bacon when he hears someone clear their throat in the doorway. When he glances up, Parrish is standing there, hands clasped behind his back, looking almost absurdly put together for someone who’s no doubt been running around an expansive crime scene for most of the night.

“Can I come in?” 

“Be my guest,” Stiles says, dropping the bacon back on his tray. “I’m surprised you’re still awake.” 

“I was supposed to go get some sleep, but I wanted to see how you were doing first.” 

“Well, here I am. Could be doing worse.” 

“Could be.” Parrish slowly settles himself down into the chair that Stiles’ father has been occupying. He looks a little lost for words; his eyes are lowered to where his hands are clasped between his knees, and he’s biting his lip. Stiles doesn’t exactly blame him for not knowing what to say; when he’d thought about the conversation they’d eventually need to have about sleeping together, he’d hadn’t expected it to be taking place under these circumstances. 

But before they can venture onto that topic, there’s something else he has to say first. 

“I don’t remember a lot of what happened after I got shot,” he starts, tearing tiny strips away from the chunk of bacon. “Just flickers, you know? But I really thought that I was going to die.” 

“Stiles-“

“I need to say this, alright? You saved my life, Parrish. If it hadn’t been for you, I'd be on a morgue slab right now.” 

“You would have done the same for me,” Parrish says quietly. There are twin patches of pink high up on his cheeks, and he looks so profoundly gorgeous that, for a fraction of a second, Stiles thinks about not saying the next part of his piece, thinks about just letting the tension between them simmer until Parrish brings it up. 

But if he owes Parrish _anything_ , it’s honesty, so he forces himself to continue. 

“I would,” he replies. “And if you ever need someone for backup, if I ever come back to the field, I’ll be there. Whenever you need. But we can’t…”

“We can’t sleep together again,” Parrish finishes, nodding solemnly. “I know. But I don’t regret it.”

“Neither do I.” Even if he did it mostly to spite Derek, his night with Parrish had been _good_ , had served as a reminder that not everything had to be rough and tumble for it to be enjoyable. “But you deserve more than someone who isn’t anywhere close to getting their shit together.” 

“You’re not as bad as you make yourself sound,” Parrish replies, shaking his head slightly, lips quirked into a small smile. “You deserve good things too, Stiles. You deserve to be cared for. You just need to _let_ yourself be cared for.” 

“I’m working on it,” he says. His mind goes straight to Derek, who had wanted to stay at his side even when his screaming informants were mere yards away. Parrish flashes another smile at him and unfolds his body, getting back to his feet. 

“I should get back at it,” he says apologetically. “We’ve just barely scratched the surface of those tunnels. Who knows what else is buried down there?” 

“Keep me posted, alright?” 

“I will.” His smile wavers, and he reaches out and brushes one thumb over one of the fading bruises high on Stiles’ neck, right underneath his jawbone. Even though the touch is uninvited, Stiles can’t help but lean into it, ever so slightly. “That’s not one of mine, is it?” 

“No,” Stiles answers. “It’s not.” Parrish keeps smiling, but there’s sadness in it now, and Stiles feels like a grade A asshole. 

“Get some rest,” Parrish murmurs and, for a moment, Stiles thinks he’s going to lean in and kiss him. Stiles thinks he would grant him that, just for old time’s sake. But Parrish simply steps away from him and exits the room, leaving nothing but the scent of his cologne behind. Once the door swings shut behind him, Stiles slumps down into his nest of cushions and resists the urge to scream at the ceiling. It doesn’t help that his morphine is wearing off; the distant, dull throb in his shoulder has upgraded, like the pain is waiting for him in the next room rather than in the next house. Fumbling with the various cords and wires hanging from the side of his bed, he manages to find the button to summon the nurse. 

Thankfully, she doesn’t deny his request. Immediately after she injects it into his IV, the pain begins to subside. 

Five minutes later, Derek returns. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks, slipping down into the chair and scooting closer to the bed. He smells heavily of coffee and hand sanitizer.

“Great. I’m gonna feel even better in a few minutes,” Stiles answers with a giggle. Derek simply raises an eyebrow at him, and Stiles waves a hand at his IV line as explanation. That seems to pacify him; he simply nods and rummages around underneath the bed until he comes back up with his clipboard. Stiles is sure that they have a metric fuckton of paperwork that needs to be filled out, and he should probably leave Derek to it, but more words slip from his mouth before he can help it. 

“Parrish came by.” 

“I know,” Derek says, checking off a box and not looking up. “We talked in the hallway.” 

“Oh,” Stiles says dumbly. For a moment, he can’t remember why he brought Parrish up in the first place, but it eventually clicks, and he keeps talking. “We agreed that we aren’t going to fuck again.” This succeeds in getting Derek’s attention; he looks up through his eyelashes, pen still poised above the page. 

“Why’s that?” Even in his drugged state, Stiles can still tell how hard Derek is trying to feign casualness. 

“Because he doesn’t deserve my mess,” Stiles says, words starting to slur together. “He’s a good guy, and he deserves someone who isn’t so fucked up. Someone who actually cares about people.” 

“You care about people,” Derek retorts. “You just don’t know how to show it. I know what that feels like.” When Stiles brings his gaze back up from the mattress (he’s not sure when exactly his eyes decided to drop to it), Derek’s emotions are laid across his face as clearly as if they were written there in ink. 

“Yeah,” Stiles replies. He drops his hand to the mattress and indignantly wiggles his fingers until Derek takes the hint and twines their fingers together. “I bet you do.” 

Soon after, he drifts off on a fluffy cloud of morphine. When he next wakes up, his lunch is on the table beside his bed, and Derek is reading a paperback novel that looks freshly purchased from the gift shop. He’s holding it in one hand, fingers splayed across the front and back cover. His other hand is still wrapped around Stiles’, even though, with one quick glance, Stiles discovers that his dad is sitting on the opposite side of his bed, sipping another cup of coffee and scrolling through his phone. 

He doesn’t feel quite ready to face the world again, so he closes his eyes again. Before he returns to the blissful land of unconsciousness, he can’t help but wonder just how long Derek plans on staying by his side.

Something tells him it’ll be awhile. 

&.

After five days, it’s all Stiles can do to not bolt from the hospital when the nurses have their backs turned. 

He’s never felt so damn antsy in his entire life. Even though he’s now able to get out of bed on his own, his legs are jittery with the urge to move. While hospital food was okay for the first two days, it’s starting to turn his stomach. Derek’s been sneaking him in food, but it just isn’t the same, no matter how many packages of gas station beef jerky he surreptitiously consumes.

He wants to get on his life. 

Thankfully, the doctor has indicated that his wound is healing well, and the chances of it getting infected are plummeting with each subsequent day. They’ve been able to slowly lower the amount of morphine he’s been receiving, although he’ll be on heavy-duty painkillers for months. The wound needs to stay bandaged for a while longer, but the nurses have showed him how to do it himself. 

But he’s far from being out of the woods. While they say that he'll be discharged tomorrow, unless something terrible happens, he still has at least one surgery ahead of him in a few weeks to try and repair some of his damaged nerves. His arm will have to remain in a sling for, optimistically, the next three months. After that point, it’ll be straight into physiotherapy and even then, the use of his arm is almost certainly going to be reduced.

But even if he still has most of the battle ahead of him, at least he’ll be able to fight it on his own crappy couch.

Derek and his dad have been spending most of their time at the hospital, talking him through details of the case and filling out paperwork on his behalf. There’s still tons that they have to deal with, including the eventual inquiries, but at least they’re making some headway. While his dad usually respects visiting hours, Derek flagrantly disobeys them. He only leaves when he’s explicitly told to, and even then, he usually sneaks back in once the nurse has left and falls asleep beside him, head awkwardly resting on the hospital bed. 

He’s thought about asking him to just get up and join him. It would definitely be better for Derek’s back, but he isn’t quite sure if the bed is actually big enough for that, and he thinks that the nurses might actually kick Derek out of the hospital for good if he did that. 

On his sixth day of being in the hospital, around seven o’clock in the evening, after disappearing for two hours, Derek returns just as a nurse is finishing up changing Stiles’ bandages. He waits until she’s left the room before he actually steps inside. 

“How’s the arm?” 

“Oh, you know,” Stiles replies facetiously from his perch on the edge of the bed, “a little tender.” Derek rolls his eyes but, surprisingly, he doesn’t make a beeline for his chair.

“Do you want to get some fresh air?” he asks. “I asked one of the nurses, and they said it was fine, if you bring your IV.” 

“Oh, fuck _yes_ ,” Stiles says, scrambling to his feet and reaching out to grab his IV stand when it threatens to fall over. He’s been able to wear some of his own clothes the last few days; shirts are still off-bounds, since he still has an IV threaded into his arm, but wearing his own pants, boxers and socks has helped him feel a little less twitchy. 

But only a little. 

Thankfully, his legs have grown stronger thanks to being able to actually move around, so he’s able to keep pace with Derek as they walk down the bustling hallway. They carefully weave their way around nurses and other patients and departing visitors and finally make it to the elevator, which they slide into along with half a dozen other people. 

“Where are we going?” Stiles asks. 

“There’s a courtyard on the first floor. It shouldn’t be too busy right now.” 

“Sounds fine by me.” 

Once they reach the first floor, Derek takes the lead again. They move past the gift shop and the chapel and turn down another hallway that ends in a pair of sliding glass doors that open onto a fair sized courtyard dotted with plants and growing greenery. The courtyard is surrounded by the hospital’s walls, rising up to the sky above. Benches dot the perimeter, and only a few are occupied at this time of night. Derek leads Stiles to one in the very back corner, nearly invisible behind a clump of trees.

“You totally scoped this out earlier, didn’t you?” Stiles asks, gratefully collapsing down onto the bench. It’s far from the most comfortable thing in the world, but after almost a week of being stuck in his bed, he’s grateful for the new scenery. 

“Maybe,” Derek answers, which definitely means yes. He sits down and leaves the barest inch of space between them. Stiles is sure it’s for propriety’s sake, in case someone who might know them comes along, but fuck them. He erases the space completely, shifts over until their knees and hips are pressed together. 

“My next question is, did you bring me here so that we could make out?” Stiles wiggles his eyebrows as high as he can, and Derek rolls his eyes and smacks at his knee. He doesn’t pull his hand away after; he just moves it up a little higher so that it’s curved above Stiles’ kneecap. 

“I figured you’d like a break from your room. And I need to tell you something.” 

Stiles’ stomach plummets, but he hopes that it doesn’t show on his face. He has no idea what Derek could possibly have to tell him, and it’s impossible to discern anything from his facial expression. 

“Alright, I’ll bite,” he says, forcing himself to smile. “What deep, dark secret do you want to divulge today?” 

“It’s hardly a secret,” Derek says, a small laugh slipping from his mouth. “I have to go back to San Diego in two days. I have some reports I need to make, some cases that need my attention. I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone for.” 

It’s certainly not bad news, but Stiles would be lying if he said that he’s excited about it. Over the last few months, that fact that Derek was officially on loan from the San Diego detachment kind of slipped from his mind. He’s become so used to Derek being within easy reach at any given moment that the thought of him being hours away is difficult to compute. 

“Oh. That’s cool. You must be excited.” 

“It will be nice to see my sisters again, I have to admit. But it’s going to be strange leaving Beacon Hills. I’ve grown to like it here.”

“It’s an alright place. If you don’t think about all the fucked up stuff that happens here.” 

“Fair enough.” For a few moments, nothing but silence fills the space between them. Stiles feels like he should be saying something, but his mind is so full of tumbling thoughts that it’s impossible to focus on just one. There’s been so many times over the last few months that he wished that Derek had never come to Beacon Hills, but he hasn’t actually wanted that for quite some time. Even when Derek was at his worst, the only reason he’d wanted him to leave was because it was easier than actually figuring out what the fuck he truly felt towards him. 

He knows that he feels _something_ towards Derek, and it’s not the same thing he felt towards Parrish. It’s not just physical; it’s unfamiliar and vaguely overwhelming, something that he’s torn between wanting to shove away and wanting to explore deeper. 

But despite the presence of Derek’s hand on his knee and the way his fingers have been woven around Stiles’ for many hours over the last few days, Stiles doesn’t know if Derek has any true interest in figuring out what that _something_ is. After all, for all of Derek’s numerous flaws, Stiles knows his own flaws are just as glaring, if not more so. He knows that he treated Derek like shit for a very long time, goaded and baited him, threatened his job, insulted his ability as a detective. He’s pretty sure that Derek deserves (and could easily find) someone better, someone who wouldn’t treat him so tumultuously.

He doesn’t exactly think much of his own self-worth, but he thinks that even he might deserve someone a little better, someone who won’t treat him like a possession if he shows even a _glimmer_ of interest in someone else. 

The thing is, he’s not sure if he _wants_ to go searching for that better person. 

“We did a lot of shitty things to each other, didn’t we?” he sighs, dropping his head against the back of the bench. 

“Yeah,” Derek replies, tightening his grip on Stiles’ knee. “We did. We _said_ a lot of horrible things.” 

“I didn’t mean all of them. Sometimes, I just wanted to rile you up. Wanted to see how far you’d go. And I’m not proud of that.” 

“I’m not exactly proud of taking the bait.” Derek slides his hand away from Stiles’ knee and brings it up to his neck, curls it around his nape. “But I’d be lying if I said I regret this.” 

“Me too. Whatever the fuck _this_ is.” 

“Yeah.” Derek laughs and this time, his smile reaches his eyes. “I have no idea what this is. But I think we can figure it out.”

“Do you _want_ to figure it out?” Stiles asks, unable to stop a hopeful grin from preemptively touching his lips. “I mean, I’ll understand if you would rather wait for someone else to come around. Someone who isn’t such a fuck-up.” 

“Jesus Stiles, shut _up_ ,” Derek mutters, leaning and dropping his forehead to Stiles’, thumb aimlessly brushing up and down Stiles’ throat. Stiles doesn’t think he’s ever been in this position with anyone to the best of his knowledge. It’s a little suffocating, being pressed so close together at so many points.

But he doesn’t pull away. 

Derek doesn’t remain there for long; he backs away and drops his hand from Stiles’ neck, slides it into the pocket of his jeans. 

“I have something for you,” he says, pulling his hand out. Whatever it is, it’s small enough that, with his fingers curled into a fist, it’s completely hidden. 

“Is it some kind of magical balm to fix the hole in my arm?” Derek just scoffs, tugs Stiles’ hand towards him, and drops the object into his palm.

It’s a key. A small, slightly tarnished, totally innocuous key. Stiles simply stares at it, gaping slightly. He doesn’t want to jump to conclusions but, realistically, there’s only one thing that the key could be for. 

“Is this what I think it is?” 

“It’s a key to my loft, if that’s what you mean,” Derek answers. “Well, a key to the front door of the building, so you don’t have to sneak inside anymore. The security code for the loft is 1225.” 

“Your security code is Christmas?” 

“My security code is my birthday.” Stiles bursts out laughing. 

“Of course it is,” he says, eyes still fixed on the key, tracing over each of its gently worn teeth. The weight of it in his palm doesn’t feel as terrifying as he thinks he should. 

“Listen, I’m not asking you to move in,” Derek continues, the words rushing together like he’s trying to push them from his mouth as quickly as possible. “But the space is yours if you want to use it. If you want to get out of your fleabag apartment for a few days. If you want to stay somewhere with a bed that you can actually sleep in.” 

“My apartment does _not_ have fleas,” Stiles retorts although, truth be told, it _could_ have fleas by now, since he hasn’t been back to it in over a week. 

“Whatever. I’m just saying. You can stay there for as long as you want.” Stiles folds his fingers over the key, presses it deep into the meat of his hand. The gesture is definitely a surprise, but he’s not scared of it. He thinks it might be one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for him. 

“You’re still here for two more days, right?” he asks, glancing away from his fingers and up into Derek’s eyes. 

“As far as I know.” 

“So, theoretically, I could use this,” Stiles continues, “tomorrow night. After I’m discharged.” 

“Theoretically, yes, you could.” 

“And, still speaking theoretically, I could spend the night in an actual bed.” 

“Yes.” 

“With you.” 

“Of course.” 

“Then I think that, and this is no longer theoretical, you should pick me up here tomorrow. And I can type in your ridiculous security code.”

“My birthday is _not_ ridiculous,” Derek grumbles, but there’s no heat or real bite behind the words. 

“It’s a little ridiculous,” Stiles replies. “Also, you didn’t say yes yet.” 

“Yes,” Derek answers. “We can make all of that a reality. But I’m not fucking you until your arm heals.” 

“You say that now, but we’ll find a way to make it work.” Before Derek can say anything else, Stiles leans in for a kiss that he thinks he’s earned. His whole body feels jittery with nerves, but it’s not quite anxiety; it’s something else, something less like panic and more like hope. His IV tugs in his arm as he leans in closer, and he pulls away only long enough to drop the key into his lap and yank the stand over before he moves back in, sliding his free hand up into Derek’s hair. Derek gives as good as he gets, nipping at Stiles’ bottom lip, dropping his hand to his hip and tracing the bone through the thin hospital gown. Stiles manages to pull away before things get too scandalous for such a public setting, but his chest is heaving, and his face is flushed with warmth. When he pulls back slightly, the key drops between his thighs, and he takes his hand away from Derek’s hair so that he can retrieve it. 

“Can I ask you something now?” Stiles says quietly, closing his hand around the key again. Derek nods and exhales deeply, cheeks and ears flushed red. “Are you sure about this? Like, actually sure?” 

For a long time, Derek doesn’t answer. He turns back to face the courtyard, gaze directed at the flowers and trees. The longer he goes without speaking, the antsier Stiles gets, but he knows if there’s one thing in his life that he cannot rush, it’s this. If Derek’s heart isn’t actually in this, if he’s just doing it out of some kind of obligation, Stiles wants to know now, before it inevitably rips them apart. 

“I don’t know if it’s the smartest thing I’ve ever done,” Derek finally answers, his voice soft as he twists back to face Stiles. “But… but I don’t think I’m going to regret it.” He drops his hand back to Stiles’ knee and this time, Stiles wriggles his fingers into Derek’s so that they’re connected together, palm to palm, the key sandwiched between them. 

“Yeah,” he says quietly, smiling genuinely as Derek squeezes his hand, pressing the key firmer into his flesh. “Me neither.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when I started posting this exactly four months ago, I had no idea how people were going to react to it, but I've been so, so happy with the reaction! all your comments and kudos mean the world to me, and extra special love goes to the people who commented on every single chapter! I suck at replying to comments sometime, but I saw every one of them, and you're amazing. 
> 
> I hope that you all enjoyed the adventure of these two assholes trying (and failing) to communicate with each other. this fic took me three consecutive Nanowrimos to write and edit, and I have to say, I think it was worth it (but lord am I excited to work on some other projects now, hah). 
> 
> as always, I can be found on [tumblr.](http://banshee-cheekbones.tumblr.com/) :)


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